gentleman. But Colville only yawned. "And there's few in
Farlingford as knew Frenchman as well as I did."

Mr. Colville walked toward the church porch, which seemed to appeal
to his sense of the artistic; for he studied the Norman work with
the eye of a connoisseur. He was evidently a cultured man, more
interested in a work of art than in human story.

River Andrew, seeing him depart, jingled the keys which he carried
in his hand, and glanced impatiently toward the older man. The
Marquis de Gemosac, however, ignored the sound as completely as he
had ignored River Andrew's remarks. He was looking round him with
eyes which had once been dark and bright, and were now dimly yellow.
He looked from tomb to tomb, vainly seeking one that should be
distinguished, if only by the evidence of a little care at the hands
of the living. He looked down the wide grass-grown street--partly
paved after the manner of the Netherlands--toward the quay, where
the brown river gleamed between the walls of the weather-beaten
brick buildings. There was a ship lying at the wharf, half laden
with hay; a coasting craft from some of the greater tidal rivers,
the Orwell or the Blackwater. A man was sitting on a piece of
timber on the quay, smoking as he looked seaward. But there was no
one else in sight. For Farlingford was half depopulated, and it was
tea-time. Across the river lay the marshes, unbroken by tree or
hedge, barren of even so much as a hut. In the distance, hazy and
grey in the eye of the North Sea, a lighthouse stood dimly, like a
pillar of smoke. To the south--so far as the eye could pierce the
sea haze--marshes. To the north--where the river ran between bare
dykes--marshes.