At last he saw it was no use lingering in that neighbourhood, and pressed on.
One day coming to a little town, his horses knocked up, and he resolved to rest them there.

The little hotel of the town was a bright and sunny place, like the jovial face of the clean little woman who kept it, and who trotted about talking always--talking to the customers in the taproom, and to the maids in the kitchen, and to the passers-by when she could hail them from the windows; talking, as good-natured women with large mouths and small noses always do, in season and out.
There was a little front parlour in the hotel, kept for strangers who wanted to be alone.

Gregory sat there to eat his breakfast, and the landlady dusted the room and talked of the great finds at the Diamond Fields, and the badness of maid-servants, and the shameful conduct of the Dutch parson in that town to the English inhabitants.

Gregory ate his breakfast and listened to nothing.

He had asked his one question, and had had his answer; now she might talk on.
Presently a door in the corner opened and a woman came out--a Mozambiquer, with a red handkerchief twisted round her head.