whom he had brought to call on his parishioners. Zora disliked to be called
a parishioner. She disliked many things in Nunsmere. Her mother, Mrs.
Oldrieve, however, loved Nunsmere, adored the Vicar, and found
awe-inspiring in his cleverness the Literary Man from London.

Nunsmere lies hidden among the oaks of Surrey, far from the busy ways of
men. It is heaven knows how many miles from a highroad. You have to drive
through lanes and climb right over a hill to get to it. Two old Georgian
houses covered with creepers, a modern Gothic church, two much more
venerable and pious-looking inns, and a few cottages settling peacefully
around a common form the village. Here and there a cottage lurks up a lane.
These cottages are mostly inhabited by the gentle classes. Some are really
old, with great oak beams across the low ceilings, and stone-flagged
kitchens furnished with great open fireplaces where you can sit and get
scorched and covered with smoke. Some are new, built in imitation of the
old, by a mute, inglorious Adam, the village carpenter. All have long
casement windows, front gardens in which grow stocks and phlox and
sunflowers and hollyhocks and roses; and a red-tiled path leads from the
front gate to the entrance porch. Nunsmere is very quiet and restful.
Should a roisterer cross the common singing a song at half-past nine at
night, all Nunsmere hears it and is shocked--if not frightened to the
extent of bolting doors and windows, lest the dreadful drunken man should
come in.

In a cottage on the common, an old one added to by the local architect,
with a front garden and a red-tiled path, dwelt Mrs. Oldrieve in entire
happiness, and her daughter in discontent. And this was through no peevish
or disagreeable traits in Zora's nature. If we hear Guy Fawkes was fretful
in the Little-Ease, we are not pained by Guy Fawkes's lack of Christian
resignation.