So long was it since the swinging sign had been painted that neither of Pig
nor of Whistle was any trace now discoverable; but over the porch one read
clearly enough the landlord's name: William Fouracres. Only three years ago
had Mr. Fouracres established himself here; Ruddiman remembered his
predecessor, with whom he had often chatted whilst drinking his modest
bottle of ginger beer. The present landlord was a very different sort of
man, less affable, not disposed to show himself to every comer. Customers
were generally served by the landlord's daughter, and with her Mr. Ruddiman
had come to be on very pleasant terms.
But as this remark may easily convey a false impression, it must be added
that Miss Fouracres was a very discreet, well-spoken, deliberate person, of
at least two-and-thirty. Mr. Ruddiman had known her for more than a year
before anything save brief civilities passed between them. In the second
twelvemonth of their acquaintance they reached the point of exchanging
reminiscences as to the weather, discussing the agricultural prospects of
the county, and remarking on the advantage to rural innkeepers of the
fashion of bicycling. In the third year they were quite intimate; so
intimate, indeed, that when Mr.
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