When Charles the First was King by J.S. Fletcher

Upon the very evening of the day whereon I had buried Philip Lisle's guinea in a corner of my garden, there came to our house Parson Drumbleforth, who had walked along the highway from Darrington to hold converse with my father and mother. And our Lucy, seeing him approach from afar aff, ran quickly indoors, and told my mother, who immediately caused a fire to be lighted in the best parlour, the spring evenings being ofttimes chilly for old bones, and Parson Drumbleforth having got past his vigour. So presently he came in sight, and advanced along the garden walks, and was met at the door by my mother with a respectful courtesy. But he would have naught of the best parlour.

"Let me go into your own chamber, Mistress Dale," said he, "where is, I know, such an easy-chair as would fit judge or bishop, let alone a humble clerk, and where the fire hath burnt all day. Your best parlour, sure, is very fine accommodation, but cold, mistress, cold."