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.