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Mira's hurry caught Brown's attention. He had been lost in his thoughts at the counter, taking advantage of the hiatus to have another ale. He was, after all, essentially a idealist. (Some foolish individuals might have termed him a pragmatist, but he saw no necessary contradiction between the terms.) A hobbit may have died, but ale was still ale, and was thus worth drinking, regardless of the circumstances.
He turned to look, and saw Rudy shaking hands with two hobbits he didn't recognize. They appeared to have decided something. Mira was talking to Bunny now, and seemed as excited as someone can who has just had a death in the family. He felt sorry for her. To be torn between the emotions of excitement and sorrow - and then possibly wracked by guilt because of it? - was something he hardly envied. And she was an awfully nice hobbit lass...
Brown turned away and concentrated on his ale with an admirable, almost single-minded diligence. Hopefully they would be on the move soon. In his mind he reviewed the road they would take and soon enough found his imagination drawn, inevitably, to the stark, windswept beauty of the North Moors. A tingle of deep-seated joy ran up his spine.
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