THE UNKNOWN MR. KENT
their faces. Then, by about nine o'clock, there might be a haze over Marken—a most savoury haze of ethereal, palpitating blue, the blue of a fair dream perfumed; but the perfumed haze in Marken was due to the unanimous habit of frying sausages. The dogs, of which population there was nearly as great a number as of other people, aroused themselves from the doorways, stretched, exchanged neighbourly canine salutations by the customary methods of identification, and then, with noses properly dilated, headed for those places where according to their fixed belief, the sausages grew and might be obtained. Later the children, swarms of them, appeared in the narrow cobbled streets, accompanied by the dogs, all of them adorned by sausage grease on their chops and an air of contentment. Then, still leisurely, the shop shutters began to come down with creaks, and bangs, and bumps, and portly shopkeepers in their shirt sleeves stood in the shade of their doorways, leaning more or less heavily on the doorjambs, and smoked, and read their papers, prior to a general assemblage in the streets to discuss the latest news. Periodically they all arose early, it being the most exciting day of each week, market day. This was due, perhaps, to the fact that the farmers of the immediate country were a quite incomprehensible sort of folk, who were foolish enough to brave miasmatic vapours from the soil
