Why can't the TUNICATUS POPELLUS keep away from a paradise like this!" Dickson, a democrat who felt nothing incongruous in the presence of other holiday-makers, was meditating a sharp rejoinder, when Mr.Heritage's tone changed.
"Ye gods! What a village!" he cried, as they turned a corner.

There were not more than a dozen whitewashed houses, all set in little gardens of wallflower and daffodil and early fruit blossom.

A triangle of green filled the intervening space, and in it stood an ancient wooden pump.

There was no schoolhouse or kirk; not even a post-office--only a red box in a cottage side.

Beyond rose the high wall and the dark trees of the demesne, and to the right up a by-road which clung to the park edge stood a two-storeyed building which bore the legend "The Cruives Inn." The Poet became lyrical.