It is a very high terrace; southward one looks down upon
the tops of wayfaring trees and spruces, and westward on a steep slope
of beechwood, through which the road comes. One turns back to the still
old house, and sees a grey and lichenous facade with a very finely
arched entrance. It was warmed by the afternoon light and touched with
the colour of a few neglected roses and a pyracanthus. It seemed to me
that the most modern owner conceivable in this serene fine place
was some bearded scholarly man in a black cassock, gentle-voiced and
white-handed, or some very soft-robed, grey gentlewoman. And there was
my uncle holding his goggles in a sealskin glove, wiping the glass with
a pocket-handkerchief, and asking my aunt if Lady Grove wasn't a "Bit of
all Right."
My aunt made him no answer.
"The man who built this," I speculated, "wore armour and carried a
sword."
"There's some of it inside still," said my uncle.
We went inside. An old woman with very white hair was in charge of the
place and cringed rather obviously to the new master.
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