Mine is an inn that sets back from the river with a rose-garden in front
the like of which you never saw nor smelt of: millions of roses in a
never-ending bloom. An inn with low ceilings, a cubby-hole of a bar next
the side entrance on the village street; two barmaids--three on
holidays; old furniture; a big fireplace in the hall; red-shaded lamps
at night; plenty of easy-chairs and cushions. An inn all dimity and
cretonne and brass bedsteads upstairs and unlimited tubs--one fastened
to the wall painted white, and about eight feet long, to fit the largest
pattern of Englishman. Out under the portico facing the rose-garden and
the river stand tables for two or four, with snow-white cloths made gay
with field-flowers, and the whole shaded by big, movable Japanese
umbrellas, regular circus-tent umbrellas, their staffs stuck in the
ground wherever they are needed. Along the sides of this garden on the
gravel-walk loll go-to-sleep straw chairs, with little wicker tables
within reach of your hand for B.
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