He arrived at a village, or, as it was called, a town, which bore the name of Colambre.

He was agreeably surprised by the air of neat--ness and finish in the houses and in the street, which had a nicely-swept paved footway.

He slept at a small but excellent inn--excellent, perhaps, because it was small, and proportioned to the situation and business of the place.

Good supper, good bed, good attendance; nothing out of repair; no things pressed into services for what they were never intended by nature or art; none of what are vulgarly called MAKE-SHIFTS.

No chambermaid slipshod, or waiter smelling of whisky; but all tight and right, and everybody doing their own business, and doing it as if it was their everyday occupation, not as if it was done by particular desire, for first or last time this season.
The landlord came in at supper to inquire whether anything was wanted.
Lord Colambre took this opportunity of entering into conversation with him, and asked him to whom the town belonged, and who were the proprietors of the neighbouring estates.
'The town belongs to an absentee lord--one Lord Clonbrony, who lives always beyond the seas, in London; and never seen the town since it was a town, to call a town.' 'And does the land in the neighbourhood belong to this Lord Clonbrony ?' 'It does, sir; he's a great proprietor, but knows nothing of his property, nor of us.