"Every one is fundamentally an artist, I suppose, who is capable of appreciating a work of beauty."
Duncan smiled slightly to himself. So far he had not spoken.
"It is all new country to me," the newcomer continued, "but from what I have seen of it, I should think it a grand place for painters. Not much for the ordinary tourist, eh?"
"That depends," Wrayson answered, "upon the ordinary tourist."
"Exactly! Quite so!" the little man agreed. "Of course, if one wanted a quiet time, what could be better than this? There must be others who think so besides yourselves."
"Who?" Wrayson asked.
"Your fellow-guests here."
"We have no fellow-guests," Wrayson answered, a little incautiously.
The newcomer leaned back in his chair with a disconcerted look.
"Then I wonder why," he exclaimed, "the landlord told me that he had not a single room."
Wrayson bit his lip.
"I fancy," he said, "that he is not in the habit of having people stay here."
"I am afraid," the little fair man said, "that it is not an hospitable village. I tried to get a room elsewhere, but, alas! with no success. They do not seem to want tourists at St. Étarpe."
Wrayson looked at the knapsack, at the camera, and at the little man himself. He spoke English easily, and without any trace of an accent. His clothes, too, had the look of having come from an English ready-made
