At this moment, the landlord of the Crown, a jovial-looking stout personage, with a white apron round his waist, issued from the house, bearing a large wooden bowl filled with ale, which he offered to Jack, who instantly rose to receive it. “I have noticed,” he said, “that you seem to delight in taking a topsy-turvy view of life. She contrived to break down the barriers of shyness at last in one direction, and talked one night of love and the facts of love with Miss Miniver. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid. The truth was impossible, indecent.
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