to prefer to any other habitation.  For years Belpher oysters had been the mainstay of gay supper parties at the Savoy, the Carlton and Romano’s.  Dukes doted on them; chorus girls wept if they were not on the bill of fare.  And then, in an evil hour, somebody discovered that what made the Belpher Oyster so particularly plump and succulent was the fact that it breakfasted, lunched and dined almost entirely on the local sewage.  There is but a thin line ever between popular homage and execration.  We see it in the case of politicians, generals and prize-fighters; and oysters are no exception to the rule.  There was a typhoid scare—­quite a passing and unjustified scare, but strong enough to do its deadly work; and almost overnight Belpher passed from a place of flourishing industry to the sleepy, by-the-world-forgotten spot which it was when George Bevan discovered it.  The shallow water is still there; the mud is still there; even the oyster-beds are still there; but not the oysters nor the little world of activity which had sprung up around them.  The glory of Belpher is dead; and over its gates Ichabod is written.  But, if it has lost in importance, it has gained in charm; and George, for one, had no regrets.  To him, in his present state of mental upheaval, Belpher was the ideal spot.

It was not at first that George roused himself to the point of asking why he was here and what—­now that he was here—­he proposed to do.  For two languorous days he loafed, sufficiently occupied with his thoughts.  He smoked long, peaceful pipes in the stable-yard, watching the ostlers as they groomed the horses; he played with the Inn puppy, bestowed respectful caresses on the Inn cat.  He walked down the quaint cobbled street to the harbour, sauntered along the shore, and lay on his back on the little beach at the other side of the lagoon, from where he could see the red roofs of the village, while the imitation waves splashed busily on the stones, trying to conceal with bustle and energy the fact that the water even two hundred yards from the shore was only eighteen inches deep.  For it is the abiding hope of Belpher Creek that it may be able to deceive the occasional visitor into mistaking it for the open sea.

And presently the tide would ebb.  The waste of waters became a sea of mud, cheerfully covered as to much of its surface with green grasses.  The evening sun struck rainbow colours from the moist softness.  Birds sang in the thickets.  And George, heaving himself up, walked back to the friendly cosiness of the Marshmoreton Arms.  And the remarkable part of it was that everything seemed perfectly natural and sensible to him, nor had he any particular feeling that in falling in love with Lady Maud Marsh and pursuing her to Belpher he had set himself anything in the nature of a hopeless task.  Like one kissed by a goddess in a dream, he walked on air; and, while one is walking on air, it is easy to overlook the boulders in the path.