“While I lived in the Village,” writes one shrewd man, “I heard of more impropriety and saw less of it than anywhere I’ve ever been!”

Here is another glimpse: 

The casual visitor to one of the basement “shops” climbs down the steep steps and pauses at the door to look at the picture.  It is rather early, and only two customers have turned up so far.  They are sitting in deep, comfortable chairs smoking and drinking (as usual, ginger-ale).  One of the proprietors—­a charmingly pretty girl—­is sweeping, preparatory to the evening “trade.”  When her husband comes in she is going to leave him in charge and go to the Liberal Club for a dance, so she is exquisitely dressed in a peach-coloured gown, open of neck and short of sleeve.  She is slim and graceful and her bright-brown hair is cropped in the Village mode.  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.  A Villager is seldom in his own quarters unless he has a shop of his own.  But if he really “belongs” he is known to hundreds of other people, and the enquiring caller will be passed along from one place to another, until, in time, he will be almost certain to locate his nomadic friend.

“Billy Robinson?  Why, yes, of course, we know him.  No, he hasn’t been in tonight.  But you try some of the other places that he goes to.  He’s very apt to drop in at the ‘Klicket’ during the evening.  Or if he isn’t there try ‘The Mad Hatter’s,’—­’Down the Rabbit Hole’ you know;—­or let’s see—­he’ll be sure to show up at the Club some time before midnight.  If you don’t find him come back here; maybe he’ll drop in later, or else someone will who has seen him.”

Of course, he is found eventually,—­usually quite soon, for the Village is a small place, and a true Village in its neighbourliness and its readiness to pass a message along.