“Very well, Sir; it be a damn poor place of entertainment, Sir Percy, with an ordinary at ten-pence, Sir.” Grigson’s tone of derision is marked by the guest who draws close about her face the cotton curtain of the upper rear chamber window. “Will you be pleased to be served in your room, Sir Percy, at once, and of whatever can be had? What wine, Sir?” “Tut, tut, Grigson. I’ll into the ordinary; off with you to the stables with the roan, rub her down and medicine her, then to your own supper in the kitchen.” “Host,” observes Mr. Grigson, loftily, as that worthy obsequiously appears in the yard with an attendant train, as is customary in welcoming persons of quality, “Sir Percy de Bohun has the condescension to say he will sup in the ordinary, and—” Whatever Mr. Grigson’s further remark may have intended to result in, was, at this crisis, lost to posterity by such a clattering from up on the high road ’round the corner of the green lane, where nestled the Queen and Artichoke, that every eye was turned to behold such a cloud of dust as joyed the soul of Boniface, whose tuned intelligence foresaw a coach and four horses; in the light of which Sir Percy de Bohun’s reeking lame roan and ill-kempt aspect faded into almost as much insignificance as had, long since, the traveler who had arrived in the clown’s cart. Boots alone was left to guide Sir Percy to his apartment, while the rest made a concerted dash for the yard entrance, just in time to make their most profound bows and courtesies before the spick little gentleman who thrust his inquiring little head out of window, keeping his door closed, as he beckoned the landlord to him with eager heavy eyes well under cover of his pulled-down hat. “What guests have you to-night?” asked the little gentleman. At the very moment he was propounding his query, Sir Percy, now sunk to ignominy even in the eyes of Boots by announcing he would sup at ten-pence, was being ushered into an upper chamber adjoining the very one in which sat, dejected, robbed of even the prospect of food by his presence, Lady Peggy Burgoyne. “Very few, My Lord,” answered the host glibly, “the very best chamber on the first floor with the sitting-room has been kept for Your Lordship,” applying hand to latch of coach-door, the which, however, is still firmly held by its occupant. “Their names?” asks the little gentleman, while at the fleck of one of the postilion’s lashes his wheelers begin to prance and advance so far into the yard as that their racket brings Peggy a second time to her narrow pane, a-squinting up her eyes to see who this may be. For, in the midst of her distress, as befalls often enough to all of us, she takes unconscious note of minor happenings, the which, those who study such matters affirm to be proof of the two-sided condition of men’s minds.