"I should have thought the air of the north coast was a bit strong for an invalid," remarked Copplestone. "I'm not delicate, but I find it quite strong enough for me."
"I daresay it's a case of kill or cure," replied Mrs. Wooler. "Chest complaint, I should think. Not that the young gentleman looks particularly delicate, either, and he tells me that he's a very good appetite and that his doctor says he's to live well and to eat as much as ever he can."
Copplestone got a view of his fellow-visitor that afternoon in the hall of the inn, and agreed with the landlady that he showed no evident signs of delicacy of health. He was a good type of the conventional curate, with a rather pale, good-humoured face set between his round collar and wide brimmed hat, and he glanced at Copplestone with friendly curiosity and something of a question in his eyes. And Copplestone, out of good neighbourliness, stopped and spoke to him.
"Mrs. Wooler tells me you're come here to pick up," he remarked. "Pretty strong air round this quarter of the globe!"
"Oh, that's all right!" said the new arrival. "The air of Scarhaven will do me good—it's full of just what I want." He gave Copplestone another look and then glanced at the letters which he held in his hand. "Are you going to the post-office?" he asked. "May I come?—I want to go there, too."
The two young men walked out of the inn, and Copplestone led the way down the road towards the
