Repressing an inclination to laugh aloud, he
stepped briskly forward.
Rickstead consisted of twenty or thirty scattered houses; an
ancient, slumberous place, remarkable chiefly for its time-honoured
inn, which stood at the crossing of two high roads. The landlord had
received notice that two gentlemen would dine under his roof, and
the unwonted event was making quite a stir in the hostelry. Quarrier
walked in at about a quarter-past six, savoury odours saluted him
from the threshold. Glazzard had not yet arrived, but in less than
five minutes a private carriage drew up to the door, and the friends
hailed each other.
The room prepared for them lay well apart from the bar, with its
small traffic. A great fire had been blazing for an hour or two; and
the table, not too large, was laid with the best service the house
could afford--nothing very grand, to be sure, in these days of its
decline, but the general effect was inviting to men with a good
appetite and some historical imagination.
"A happy idea of yours!" said Glazzard, as he rubbed his hands
before the great hearth. "Are we to begin with a cup of sack?"
Punctually the meal was served; the liquor provided therewith,
though of small dignity, did no discredit to the host. They talked
and laughed over old Grammar School days, old acquaintances long
since dead or lost to sight, boyish ambitions and achievements.
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