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.
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