But it was not the same sort of dinner-hour as that which the inhabitants of the house were accustomed to; there was conversation.
The farmer asked Anthony by what conveyance he had come.

Anthony shyly, but not without evident self-approbation, related how, having come by the train, he got into conversation with the driver of a fly at a station, who advised him of a cart that would be passing near Wrexby.
For threepennyworth of beer, he had got a friendly introduction to the carman, who took him within two miles of the farm for one shilling, a distance of fifteen miles.

That was pretty good! "Home pork, brother Tony," said the farmer, approvingly.
"And home-made bread, too, brother William John," said Anthony, becoming brisk.
"Ay, and the beer, such as it is." The farmer drank and sighed.
Anthony tried the beer, remarking, "That's good beer; it don't cost much." "It ain't adulterated.

By what I read of your London beer, this stuff's not so bad, if you bear in mind it's pure.

Pure's my motto.