He came again to the inn, and there he found subtle changes. Ploughmen and clodhoppers in general were obviously now discouraged, for the besom had disappeared. There was, too, a something of sufficiency in the manner of the landlady, and one no longer would have desired to sit down to table with her--nor she possibly have agreed, for the parlour had now lost something of its sacramental detachedness, and had become a sort of dining-room. Again roast beef, but cold, and whortleberry tart--with fewer berries and more crust--and instead of the cheese that invited you to cut and come again, a mere slice; while pewter was obviously reckoned vulgar, for a glass was provided instead. The price had risen to one and six. “Many bicycliss’ calls here now,” said the landlady. Behind a newly constructed bar stood her son. His cords were more baggy at the hips and tighter at the knees, and he obviously knew a thing or two: beside him was one of the daughters, garishly apparelled. In another year or so the village itself had changed. There was an epidemic of mineral waters, and every aforetime simple cottager sold them, professing to know nothing of the old-fashioned “stone bottle” ginger-beer. The inn had now got a new window, something in the “Queen Anne” way, that projected beyond the general building-line of the house and converted what had been the tap into a “saloon” where two golden-haired barmaids presided. The landlady had by this time got a black satin dress, and was plentifully hung with gold chains. A highly varnished suite of unreliable furniture from Curtain Road filled the dining-room, whose walls were hung with the advertisements of pushful distillery companies’ latest liqueurs. “Lunch,” consisting of a plate of indifferent cold beef, some doubtful salad, bottled beer, a fossil roll, and a small piece of American cheese, cost half a crown. One phase alone remains of this “strange, eventful history.” The old-time bicyclist, long since shorn of his first syllable--and of much else in this vale of tears--comes now to his ancient haunt along a road thickly overhung with dust-fog created by swift motor-cars, and finds a new wing built, with--in the odd spirit of contradiction--an elaborate wrought-iron sign projecting from it, proclaiming this to be “Ye Old Beare.” He further learns that it has “Accommodation for Motorists,” sells petrol, and boasts a “Garage and Inspection Pit.” An ostler, or a something black and greasy in the mechanic line, leads his cycle away in custody into the yard.