"You found your way, sir," said he, looking at Wogan anxiously.

"Nor are your walls any poorer of paint on that account," said Wogan as
he took his wet cloak and flung it over a chair.

The landlord blew out his candle and busied himself about laying the
table. A great iron pot swung over the fire by a chain, and the lid
danced on the top and allowed a savoury odour to escape. Wogan sat
himself down before the fire and his clothes began to steam.

"You laugh at my paint, sir," said the landlord. He was a fat,
good-humoured-looking man, communicative in his manner as a Boniface
should be, and his wife was his very complement. "You laugh at my
paint, but it is, after all, a very important thing. What is a great
lady without her rouge-pot, when you come to think of it? It is the same
with an inn. It must wear paint if it is to attract attention and make a
profit."

"There is philosophy in the comparison," said Wogan.

"Sir, an innkeeper cannot fail of philosophy if he has his eyes and a
spark of intelligence. The man who took refuge in a tub because the
follies of his fellows so angered him was the greatest fool of them all.
He should have kept an inn on the road to Athens, for then the follies
would have put money into his pocket and made him laugh instead of
growl."

His wife came over to the fireplace and lifted the lid of the pot.

"The supper is ready," said she.