"A dream of Kubla Kahn--don't know whether I've got the name right:
poem of Coleridge's, you know--but of course you don't know; you don't
go in for poetry. Well I'm bound to admit that it's striking, not to
say beautiful," he went on, as the horses sprang up the last ascent and
rattled on in an impatient, high-spirited trot along the level road to
the terrace fronting the entrance.
As Stafford pulled up, a couple of grooms came forward; the hall
door--enamelled in peacock blue--opened and a butler and two footmen in
rich maroon livery appeared. They came down the white marble steps in
stately fashion and ranged themselves as if the ceremony were of vast
importance, and as Howard and Stafford got down they bowed with the air
of attendants receiving royalty.
As Stafford, flinging the reins to one of the grooms, got down, he
caught sight of a line of liveried servants in the hall, and he frowned
slightly.
Like most young Englishmen, he hated ostentation, which he designated
as "fuss."
"Rub 'em down well, Pottinger," he said, and he leisurely patted the
horses while the gorgeous footmen watched with solemn impressiveness.
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