“NO, my lord,” Banks had replied, “no stranger has yet arrived. But I’ll see if any one has come in-or who has.” As he spoke¹, however, he observed Lady Sandgate’s approach to the hall by the entrance giving upon the great terrace, and addressed her on her passing the threshold. “Lord John, my lady.” With which, his duty majestically² performed, he retired³ to the quarter — that of the main access to the spacious⁴ centre of the house — from which he had ushered⁵ the visitor.

This personage, facing Lady Sandgate as she paused there a moment framed by the large doorway⁶ to the outer expanses, the small pinkish paper of a folded telegram in her hand, had partly before him, as an immediate⁷ effect, the high wide interior, still breathing the quiet air and the fair pannelled security of the couple of hushed and stored centuries, in which certain of the reputed treasures of Dedborough Place beautifully disposed themselves; and then, through ample apertures⁸ and beyond the stately stone outworks of the great seated and supported house — uplifting terrace, balanced, balustraded steps and containing basins where splash and spray were at rest — all the rich composed extension of garden and lawn and park. An ancient, an assured elegance⁹ seemed to reign¹⁰; pictures and preserved “pieces,” cabinets and tapestries¹¹, spoke, each for itself, of fine selection and high distinction; while the originals of the old portraits, in more or less deserved salience, hung over the happy scene as the sworn members of a great

分享到：