Stafford slowed up, and a lodgekeeper came and flung open the
new and elaborately wrought iron gates.
"This the way to--to Sir Stephen's house?" asked Stafford.
The man touched his hat reverentially.
"Yes, sir," he replied. "Sir Stephen's arrived. Came an hour ago."
Stafford nodded, and drove on.
The road was certainly a new one, but it was lined with rhododendrons
and costly shrubs, and it wound and wound serpentine fashion through
shrubberies and miniature plantations which indicated not only
remarkably good taste, but vast expenditure. At intervals the trees had
been felled to permit a view of the lake, lying below, like a sapphire
glowing in the sunlight.
Presently they came in sight of the house. It was larger than it had
looked in the distance; a veritable palace. An architect had received
_carte-blanche_, and disporting himself right royally, had designed a
facade which it would be hard to beat: at any rate, in England.
Stafford eyed it rather grumpily. Most Englishmen dislike ostentation
and display; and to Stafford the place seemed garish and "loud." Howard
surveyed it with cynical admiration.
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