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.

Anyone who goes there with an open mind will carry it away filled with nothing but good things--save sometimes perhaps a little envy.
And, by the bye, that habit of calling at strange places to locate people is emphatically a Village custom.

Or rather, perhaps, it should be put the other way: the habit of giving some "shop" or eating place instead of a regular address is most prevalent among Villagers.