We drove a little way beyond the town to rows of dwelling mansions more or less important and growing in magnificence until we arrived at one inside some gates, a cross between a robber’s castle on the stage, and a Henri III. chateau, mixed with a “little English Gothic.”  Huge, un-nameable animals were carved on top of the gates.  Tom said the fathers of them must have been “gazeekas,” and their mothers “slithy toves,” out of “Through the Looking-glass.”  They were Mr. Purdy’s crest, we suppose.  Then came a short gravel path and a robber’s castle, nail-studded door.  All the down-stairs windows had the shutters shut, so we were rather nervous ringing the bell in case there had been a death since our invitation came; but the door was opened immediately by a German butler—­one of those people one sees at sea-side hotels, who have come over to learn English, with a slow sort of walk and stentorian breathing.

The hall was full of pictures in the widest gold frames, all sorts:  landscapes, portraits, cats, dogs, groups of still life, good, bad, and indifferent massed together on a wall covered with large-patterned scarlet and gilt Japanese leather paper.  Guarding the doors and staircase were imitation suits of armour on dummy men, standing under some really beautiful Toledo blades crossed above their heads.  Then, through crimson plush curtains with gold applique Florentine patterned borders, we were ushered into the drawing-room.

It was so original!  Think, Mamma, of a sarcophagus for a drawing-room!  Stone walls and floor, tombstone mantlepieces (mixed Gothic), really good Persian rugs, and the very most carved, brand new gilt Louis Philippe suite of furniture, helped out by mammoth armchairs and sofa, covered in gold brocade.  These had the same shape and look for furniture as the men in the hotel hall had for men, so colossally stuffed out and large.  The Vicomte said, “Dieu!  Un salon d’Hippopotames!” It was a glorious sunny day, but from the hall onwards all daylight had been excluded, and the drawing-room was a blaze of electric light, flashing from countless gilt branches; while the guests to meet us were drawn up on the hearth rug, the women in full restaurant evening dress, a little decollete, and hats, and glittering with jewels.

Octavia and I felt miserably cheap creatures.  Mr. Craik V. Purdy, simply gorgeous about waistcoat and watchchain, presented us to his wife, a short, red-haired woman (I do dislike red hair, don’t you, Mamma?).  She was very stout, but I don’t understand why she was such a “drawback.”  She had the jolliest face and laugh, even if her voice was the voice of the Lusitania’s siren.

The customs are so quaint!  She introduced us to each guest (not the guests to us!) and they each repeated our names after her like this: