Trevethick was moodily smoking his pipe in the porch, still balancing
the rival claims of his sons-in-law elect, and dissatisfied with both of
them. He did not share Solomon's hopes, and he detested losing his money
above every thing. "Well, you've packed off all those fellows, I hope,
that have been eating me out of house and home for these three weeks?"
"I've closed the mine, if that's what you mean," said Solomon. "But" (he
looked cautiously up at the windows of the inn, which were all open--the
guests were out in search of the picturesque, and Harry was on the
tower, straining her eyes after Richard) "I want to have a word with you
in private, Trevethick."
"Come into the bar parlor, then," grunted the landlord, for he did not
much relish the idea of a confidential talk with Solomon just then,
since it might have relation to a matter about which he had not fully
made up his mind to give him an answer.
"Is that young painter fellow out of the way, then?" asked Solomon. "We
have never had a place to ourselves, it seems to me, since _he_ came to
Gethin."
"Yes, yes, he's far enough off," answered Trevethick, more peevishly
than before, for Sol's remark seemed to foreshadow the very subject he
would fain have avoided talking about. "He's gone to Plymouth, he is,
and won't be back these five days.
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