When a man is young he seeks solitude, when he is middle-aged, he flies it and his thoughts.

I made therefore for the 'Green Pillar,' a little inn in the village street, to which I had been directed at Auch, and, thundering on the door with the knob of my riding switch, railed at the man for keeping me waiting.
Here and there at hovel doors in the street--which was a mean, poor place, not worthy of the name--men and women looked out at me suspiciously.

But I affected to ignore them; and at last the host came.
He was a fair-haired man, half-Basque, half-Frenchman, and had scanned me well, I was sure, through some window or peephole; for when he came out he betrayed no surprise at the sight of a well-dressed stranger--a portent in that out-of-the-way village--but eyed me with a kind of sullen reserve.
'I can lie here to-night, I suppose ?' I said, dropping the reins on the sorrel's neck.

The horse hung its head.
'I don't know,' he answered stupidly.
I pointed to the green bough which topped a post that stood opposite the door.
'This is an inn, is it not ?' I said.
'Yes,' he answered slowly.

'It is an inn.