One of the proprietors--a charmingly pretty girl--is
sweeping, preparatory to the evening "trade." When her husband comes
in she is going to leave him in charge and go to the Liberal Club for
a dance, so she is exquisitely dressed in a peach-coloured gown, open
of neck and short of sleeve. She is slim and graceful and her
bright-brown hair is cropped in the Village mode. She is the most
attractive maid-of-all-work that the two "customers" have ever seen.
When, pausing in her labours, she offers them her own cigarette case
with the genuine simplicity and grace of a child offering sweetmeats,
their subjugation is complete. Though they are strangers in a strange
land--they have only dropped in to find out an address of a friend who
lives in the Village--they never misunderstand the situation, their
hostess nor the atmosphere for a moment. No one misunderstands the
charming, picturesque _camaraderie_ of the Village--unless they have
been reading Village novelists, that breed held in contempt by Harry
Kemp and all the Greenwichers.
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