The first requisite of an invading army is a base. George, havingentered Belpher village and thus accomplished the first stage inhis foreward movement on the castle, selected as his base theMarshmoreton Arms. Selected is perhaps hardly the right word, as itimplies choice, and in George's case there was no choice. There aretwo inns at Belpher, but the Marshmoreton Arms is the only one thatoffers accommodation for man and beast, assuming--that is tosay--that the man and beast desire to spend the night. The otherhouse, the Blue Boar, is a mere beerhouse, where the lower strataof Belpher society gather of a night to quench their thirst and totell 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 willfind the local veterinary surgeon smoking a pipe with the grocer,the baker, and the butcher, with perhaps a sprinkling ofneighbouring farmers to help the conversation along. There is a"shilling ordinary"--which is rural English for a cut off the jointand a boiled potato, followed by hunks of the sort of cheese whichbelieves that it pays to advertise, and this is usually wellattended. On the other days of the week, until late in the evening,however, the visitor to the Marshmoreton Arms has the place almostentirely to himself.

　　It is to be questioned whether in the whole length and breadth ofthe world there is a more admirable spot for a man in love to passa day or two than the typical English village. The Rocky Mountains,that traditional stamping-ground for the heartbroken, may be wellenough in their way; but a lover has to be cast in a pretty stemmould to be able to be introspective when at any moment he may meetan annoyed cinnamon bear. In the English village there are no suchobstacles to meditation. It combines the comforts of civilizationwith the restfulness of solitude in a manner equalled by no otherspot except the New York Public Library. Here your lover may wanderto and fro unmolested, speaking to nobody, by nobody addressed, andhave the satisfaction at the end of the day of sitting down to acapitally 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 seenbetter days. In a sense, it is a ruin, and ruins are alwayssoothing to the bruised soul. Ten years before, Belpher had been aflourishing centre of the South of England oyster trade. It issituated by the shore, where Hayling Island, lying athwart themouth 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 Bayof Long Island from the waves of the Atlantic. The water of BelpherCreek is shallow even at high tide, and when the tide runs out itleaves glistening mud flats, which it is the peculiar taste of theoyster to prefer to any other habitation. For years Belpher oystershad been the mainstay of gay supper parties at the Savoy, theCarlton and Romano's. Dukes doted on them; chorus girls wept ifthey were not on the bill of fare. And then, in an evil hour,somebody discovered that what made the Belpher Oyster soparticularly plump and succulent was the fact that it breakfasted,lunched and dined almost entirely on the local sewage. There is buta thin line ever between popular homage and execration. We see itin the case of politicians, generals and prize-fighters; andoysters are no exception to the rule. There was a typhoidscare--quite a passing and unjustified scare, but strong enough todo its deadly work; and almost overnight Belpher passed from aplace of flourishing industry to the sleepy, by-the-world-forgottenspot which it was when George Bevan discovered it. The shallowwater is still there; the mud is still there; even the oyster-bedsare still there; but not the oysters nor the little world ofactivity which had sprung up around them. The glory of Belpher isdead; and over its gates Ichabod is written. But, if it has lost inimportance, it has gained in charm; and George, for one, had noregrets. To him, in his present state of mental upheaval, Belpherwas the ideal spot.