And Tony spoke of tea! I dragged my eyes from the magnet of the view and found that I had stopped the car within a few yards of a little hotel that must have been planted there originally by someone with a soul. It lay by the open roadside five miles from anywhere. It was built of the rough grey-green stone of the district, but it was rescued from the commonplace by its leaded windows, the big old beams that angled across its white plastered gables, and by the clematis and late tea roses that clung about its porch. I could hardly blame Tony for her materialism. The hotel blended admirably with its surroundings. There was nothing about it of the beerhouse-on-the-mountain-top so dear to the German mind. It looked quiet, refined and restful, and one felt instinctively that it would be managed in a fashion in keeping with all about it. "By Jove, Tony!" I said, as I drew up to the clematis-covered porch, "we might do worse than stop here for a day or two." "We'll have tea anyhow, and see what we think of it." I clattered over the red-tiled floor, and when my eyes had grown accustomed to the dim light that contrasted so well with the sunshine without, found myself in a small sunshiny room, with a low ceiling, oak-rafted, some comfortable chairs, an old eight-day clock stopped at ten-thirty-five, and a man. He was a long thin man, clean-shaven, wearing an old shooting coat and a pair of shabby grey flannel trousers. He smoked a pipe and read in a book. At my entrance he did not look up, and I set him down as a guest in the hotel. One side of the room was built of obscured glass panes, with an open square in the middle and a ledge upon which rested several suggestive empty glasses, so I crossed to this hospitable-looking gap, and tapped upon the ledge. Several repetitions bringing no response, I turned to the only living creature who appeared to be available. "Can you tell me, sir, if we can have tea in the hotel," I asked. The long man started, looked up, closed his book, and jumped to his feet as if galvanized to life. "Of course, of course, of course," he cried hastily, and added, as by an afterthought, "of course." I may have shown a natural surprise at this almost choral response, for he pulled himself together and became something more explicit. "I'll see to it at once," he said hurriedly. "I'm--I'm the proprietor, you know. You won't mind if we're--if we're a little upset. You see, I--I've just moved in. Left me by an uncle, you know, an uncle in Australia. I'll see to it at once. Anything you would like--specially fancy? Bread and butter now, or cake perhaps? Will you take a seat--two seats." (Tony had followed me in). "And look at yesterday's paper. Oh yes, you can have tea--of course, of course, of course. Of----" His words petered out, as he clattered off down a like-flagged passage. I looked at Tony and raised my eyebrows. "Seems a trifle mad," I said.