orth, of empty boats, goes on just
as it does at the other boat-landings, up and down the river; but, at
the White Hart, it is the rose garden that counts! Planted in rows, like
corn, their stalks straight as walking-sticks and as big; then a flare
of smaller stalks like umbrella ribs, the circle covered with Prince
Alberts, Cloth-of-Golds, Teas, Saffrons, Red Ramblers (the old gardener
knows their names; I don't). And the perfume that sweeps toward you and
the way it sinks into your soul! Bury your face in a bunch of them, if
you don't believe it.

Then the bridge! That mouldy old mass of red brick that makes three
clumsy jumps before it clears the river, the green rushes growing about
its feet. And the glory of the bend below, with the fluff of elm, birch
and maple melting into the morning haze!

Inside it is none the less delightful. Awnings, fronting the garden,
stretch over the flowerbeds; vines twist their necks, the blossoms
peeping curiously as you take your coffee.

There is a coffee-room, of course, with stags' heads and hunting prints,
and small tables with old-fashioned flowers in tiny vases, as well as a
long serving board the width of the room, where everything that can be
boiled, baked or stewed and then served cold awaits the hungry.

It was at this long board that we three brought up, and it was not long
before Lonnegan and Mac were filling their plates, and with their own
hands, too, with thin cuts of cold roast beef, chicken and slivers of
ham, picking out the particular bread or toast or muffin they liked
best, bringing the whole out under the low awning with its screen of
roses, the swinging blossoms brushing their cheeks--some of them almost
in their plates.

From where we sat over our boiled and baked--principally boiled--we
could see not only the suite of rooms reserved for the great man and
his party--one end of the inn, really, with a separate entrance--but
we could see, too, part of the tap-room, with its rows of bottles, and
could hear the laughter and raillery of the barmaid as she served the
droppers-in and loungers-about. We caught, as well, the small square
hall, flanked by the black-oak counter, behind which were banked bottles
of various shapes and sizes, rows of pewter tankards and the like, the
whole made comfortable with chairs cushioned in Turkey red, and never
empty--the chairs, I mean; the tankards always were, or about to be.

This tap-room, I must tell you, is not a bar in