Still mopping himself, he entered the inn, and, guided by the drone of voices, sauntered into the bar. At sight of Mr. Caryll leaning there, his little eyes beamed an instant, as do the eyes of one who espies a friend, or--apter figure--the eyes of the hunter when they sight the quarry. He advanced to the bar, bowing to Mr. Caryll with an air almost apologetic, and to the landlady with an air scarcely less so, as he asked for a nipperkin of ale to wash the dust of the road from his throat. The hostess called a drawer to serve him, and departed herself upon the momentous business of Mr. Caryll's dinner. “A warm day, sir,” said the chubby man. Mr. Caryll agreed with him politely, and finished his glass, the other sipping meanwhile at his ale. “A fine brew, sir,” said he. “A prodigious fine brew! With all respect, sir, your honor should try a whet of our English ale.” Mr. Caryll, setting down his glass, looked languidly at the man. “Why do you exclude me, sir, from the nation of this beverage?” he inquired. The chubby man's face expressed astonishment. “Ye're English, sir! Ecod! I had thought ye French!” “It is an honor, sir, that you should have thought me anything.” The other abased himself. “'Twas an unwarrantable presumption, Codso! which I hope your honor'll pardon.” Then he smiled again, his little eyes twinkling humorously. “An ye would try the ale, I dare swear your honor would forgive me. I know ale, ecod! I am a brewer myself. Green is my name, sir--Tom Green--your very obedient servant, sir.” And he drank as if pledging that same service he professed. Mr. Caryll observed him calmly and a thought indifferently. “Ye're determined to honor me,” said he. “I am your debtor for your reflections upon whetting glasses; but ale, sir, is a beverage I don't affect, nor shall while there are vines in France.” “Ah!” sighed Mr. Green rapturously. “'Tis a great country, France; is it not, sir?” “'Tis not the general opinion here at present. But I make no doubt that it deserves your praise.” “And Paris, now,” persisted Mr. Green. “They tell me 'tis a great city; a marvel o' th' ages. There be those, ecod! that say London's but a kennel to't.” “Be there so?” quoth Mr. Caryll indifferently. “Ye don't agree with them, belike?” asked Mr. Green, with eagerness. “Pooh! Men will say anything,” Mr. Caryll replied, and added pointedly: “Men will talk, ye see.” “Not always,” was the retort in a sly tone. “I've known men to be prodigious short when they had aught to hide.” “Have ye so? Ye seem to have had a wide experience.” And Mr. Caryll sauntered out, humming a French air through closed lips. Mr. Green looked after him with hardened eyes. He turned to the drawer who stood by. “He's mighty close,” said he. “Mighty close!” “Ye're not perhaps quite the company he cares for,” the drawer suggested candidly. Mr. Green looked at him. “Very like,” he snapped. “How long does he stay here?”