"By Jove, Tony!" I said, as I drew up to the clematis-covered porch,
"we might do worse than stop here for a day or two."
"We'll have tea anyhow, and see what we think of it." I clattered over
the red-tiled floor, and when my eyes had grown accustomed to the dim
light that contrasted so well with the sunshine without, found myself
in a small sunshiny room, with a low ceiling, oak-rafted, some
comfortable chairs, an old eight-day clock stopped at ten-thirty-five,
and a man.
He was a long thin man, clean-shaven, wearing an old shooting coat and
a pair of shabby grey flannel trousers. He smoked a pipe and read in a
book. At my entrance he did not look up, and I set him down as a guest
in the hotel.
One side of the room was built of obscured glass panes, with an open
square in the middle and a ledge upon which rested several suggestive
empty glasses, so I crossed to this hospitable-looking gap, and tapped
upon the ledge. Several repetitions bringing no response, I turned to
the only living creature who appeared to be available.
"Can you tell me, sir, if we can have tea in the hotel," I asked.
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