The first requisite of an invading army is a base.  George, having entered Belpher village and thus accomplished the first stage in his foreward movement on the castle, selected as his base the Marshmoreton Arms.  Selected is perhaps hardly the right word, as it implies choice, and in George’s case there was no choice.  There are two inns at Belpher, but the Marshmoreton Arms is the only one that offers accommodation for man and beast, assuming—­that is to say—­that the man and beast desire to spend the night.  The other house, the Blue Boar, is a mere beerhouse, where the lower strata of Belpher society gather of a night to quench their thirst and to tell one another interminable stories without any point whatsoever.  But the Marshmoreton Arms is a comfortable, respectable hostelry, catering for the village plutocrats.  There of an evening you will find the local veterinary surgeon smoking a pipe with the grocer, the baker, and the butcher, with perhaps a sprinkling of neighbouring farmers to help the conversation along.  There is a “shilling ordinary”—­which is rural English for a cut off the joint and a boiled potato, followed by hunks of the sort of cheese which believes that it pays to advertise, and this is usually well attended.  On the other days of the week, until late in the evening, however, the visitor to the Marshmoreton Arms has the place almost entirely to himself.

It is to be questioned whether in the whole length and breadth of the world there is a more admirable spot for a man in love to pass a day or two than the typical English village.  The Rocky Mountains, that traditional stamping-ground for the heartbroken, may be well enough in their way; but a lover has to be cast in a pretty stem mould to be able to be introspective when at any moment he may meet an annoyed cinnamon bear.  In the English village there are no such obstacles to meditation.  It combines the comforts of civilization with the restfulness of solitude in a manner equalled by no other spot except the New York Public Library.  Here your lover may wander to and fro unmolested, speaking to nobody, by nobody addressed, and have the satisfaction at the end of the day of sitting down to a capitally cooked chop and chips, lubricated by golden English ale.

Belpher, in addition to all the advantages of the usual village, has a quiet charm all its own, due to the fact that it has seen better days.  In a sense, it is a ruin, and ruins are always soothing to the bruised soul.  Ten years before, Belpher had been a flourishing centre of the South of England oyster trade.  It is situated by the shore, where Hayling Island, lying athwart the mouth of the bay, forms the waters into a sort of brackish lagoon, in much the same way as Fire Island shuts off the Great South Bay of Long Island from the waves of the Atlantic.  The water of Belpher Creek is shallow even at high tide, and when the tide runs out it leaves glistening mud flats, which it is the peculiar taste of the oyster