They don't own the house, though.

I hear the landlord is a very wealthy man in London.

By the way, same name as yourself, sir." "Do I look like a millionaire ?" asked Peter Reid, and the landlord laughed pleasantly and non-committally.
The next day was sunny and Peter Reid went out for a walk.

It was a different Priorsford that he had come back to.

A large draper's shop with plate-glass windows occupied the corner where Jenny Baxter had rolled her toffee-balls and twisted her "gundy," and where old Davy Linton had cut joints and weighed out mince-collops accompanied by wise weather prophecies, a smart fruiterer's shop now stood furnished with a wealth of fruit and vegetables unimagined in his young days.