This was essentially a man of cities, and one better suited to the pavement than the rural quiet of Farlingford.

To have the gift of tongues is no great recommendation to the British born, and River Andrew looked askance at this fine gentleman while he spoke French.

He had received letters at the post-office under the name of Dormer Colville: a name not unknown in London and Paris, but of which the social fame had failed to travel even to Ipswich, twenty miles away from this mouldering churchyard.
"It's getting on for twenty-five years come Michaelmas," put in River Andrew.

"I wasn't digger then; but I remember the burial well enough.
And I remember Frenchman--same as if I see him yesterday." He plucked a blade of grass from the grave and placed it between his teeth.
"He were a mystery, he were," he added, darkly, and turned to look musingly across the marshes toward the distant sea.

For River Andrew, like many hawkers of cheap wares, knew the indirect commercial value of news.
The little white-haired Frenchman made a gesture of the shoulders and outspread hands indicative of a pious horror at the condition of this neglected grave.