too closely into a man's business, and, as in other places, the talk
was mostly among those who knew the least--namely, the women. There
had been a question of repairing the church. The generation now
slowly finding its way to its precincts had discussed the matter
since their childhood and nothing had come of it.

One bold spirit put forth the suggestion that the two gentlemen were
London architects sent down by the Queen to see to the church. But
the idea fell to the ground before the assurance from Mrs. Clopton's
own lips that the old gentleman was nothing but a Frenchman.

Mrs. Clopton kept "The Black Sailor," and knew a deal more than she
was ready to tell people; which is tantamount to saying that she was
a woman in a thousand. It had leaked out, however, that the
spokesman of the party, Mr. Dormer Colville, had asked Mrs. Clopton
whether it was true that there was claret in the cellars of "The
Black Sailor." And any one having doubts could satisfy himself with
a sight of the empty bottles, all mouldy, standing in the back yard
of the inn.

They were wine-merchants from France, concluded the wiseacres of
Farlingford over their evening beer. They had come to Farlingford
to see Captain Clubbe. What could be more natural! For Farlingford
was proud of Captain Clubbe. It so often happens that a man going
out into the world and making a great name there, forgets his
birthplace and the rightful claim to a gleam of reflected glory
which the relations of a great man--who have themselves stayed at
home and done nothing--are always ready to consider their due reward
for having shaken their heads over him during the earlier struggles.