Again I was the only guest at the inn which was called, perhaps, "The Dappled Hart," but there was an excellent dinner waiting for any who might stop. There was lamb as tender as one could wish, and peas which had not been withered by transportation, and a cherry tart, over which custard had been poured, which, I fear, came out of a bottle such as the advertisements on the boardings illustrate with a picture of a greedy little girl waiting impatiently to be helped! When I praised the freshness of the peas the young woman, who served me none too graciously, I know not why, unless because I had no chauffeur, said they had been picked in the garden that same morning. This menu, I may say, seldom changed, though sometimes the lamb had grown to mutton, or even changed to some other animal; but, whatever the meat was called, it was invariably excellent, and far better cooked than one would find in a place of the same size at home. When I had dined, or, as there was no soup, I suppose I should say lunched, I asked if I might smoke. But the uncompromising young woman said "Certainly not," and pointed the way to the bar. This was reached by crossing the paved way which led from the side street to the stables, passing under an archway. The bar proved to be a low, damp room, in which, I think, if one sat long alcohol would become a necessity. There were several small tables arranged for those who wished to be semiprivate, but I noticed that the few customers preferred to lean against the bar and talk to the landlord, much as in the saloons at home. After a casual glance they paid no attention to me, and I sipped my coffee and smoked my pipe in silence.