There seemed, in short, an air of wandering expectancy abroad--almost as if the unregarded village, committed hitherto to a serene isolation, were become suddenly a field for prospectors, ready to “exploit” anything from a three-legged calf to a _sainte nitouche_. Conversing couples hushed their voices as he went by, their eyes stealthily scanning him as one that had ventured without justification within a consecrated sanctuary. A berline stood drawn up by the green-side, its occupants, two fashionable ladies from Liége, converted from the latest fashion in hats to the last in emotionalism. The blacksmith, in his little shop under the walnut-tree, familiarly rallied his Creator from stentorian lungs as he clanked upon his anvil. Across the _Place_ the ineffective Curé was to be seen escorting a party towards the church; and, over all--visitors and inhabitants--went the sweet laugh of May blowing abroad the scent of woods and blossoms. Ned turned into the “Landlust,” feeling somehow that his dream of rest was resolved into a droll. Nor, once within, was he to be agreeably disillusioned in this respect. The Van Roon seemed to positively resent his recursion--to regard him in the light of an insistent patient returning, on trifling provocation, to a hospital from which he had been discharged as cured. “What! you again!” she cried sourly. “One would think moogsieur had no object in life but to canvass the favour of Méricourt.” Ned, the yet imperturbable, answered with unruffled gallantry-- “Indeed, in all the course of my travels I have never seen anything to admire so much as madame in the conduct of her business. Whichever way I have looked since my departure, it was always she that filled my perspective.” “If that is the same as your stomach,” said madame rudely, “you will have found me hard of digestion.” “At least I am hungry now.” “That is a pity. You shall pick Lenten fare in the ‘Landlust’ in these days.” “Is it not rather a question of payment, madame?” “No, it is not,” she snapped out viciously. “Moogsieur imposes his custom on me. He may take or refuse; what do I care, then! We have nowadays other things to think of than to pamper the gross appetites of worldlings.” “A thousand pardons! Is not that a strange confession from an inn-keeper?” “You may think so if you like. It makes no difference. To charge an egg with the price of a full meal--where one is willing to pay it--it simplifies matters, does it not? Anyhow, to be served by one of the elect (it is I that speak to you)--that is a privilege your betters appreciate at its value.” “Well,” said Ned, “I am at sea, and I have a mariner’s appetite. Give me what you will, madame.” She accepted him, as once before, with a sort of surly mistrust. A former unregenerate friend of his, she said, was seated in the common kitchen. He had best join this person while his meal was preparing.