After an eternity of winding roads, darkened cottages, and black fields and hedges, the cart turned in at a massive iron gate, which stood open giving entrance to a smooth gravel drive.  Here the way ran for nearly a mile through an open park of great trees and was then swallowed in the darkness of dense shrubberies.  Presently to the left appeared lights, at first in ones and twos, shining out and vanishing again; then, as the shrubberies ended and the smooth lawns and terraces began, blazing down on the travelers from a score of windows, with the heartening effect of fires on a winter night.

Against the pale gray sky Blandings Castle stood out like a mountain.  It was a noble pile, of Early Tudor building.  Its history is recorded in England’s history books and Viollet-le-Duc has written of its architecture.  It dominated the surrounding country.

The feature of it which impressed Ashe most at this moment, however, was the fact that it looked warm; and for the first time since the drive began he found himself in a mood that approximated cheerfulness.  It was a little early to begin feeling cheerful, he discovered, for the journey was by no means over.  Arrived within sight of the castle, the cart began a detour, which, ten minutes later, brought it under an arch and over cobblestones to the rear of the building, where it eventually pulled up in front of a great door.

Ashe descended painfully and beat his feet against the cobbles.  He helped Joan to climb down.  Joan was apparently in a gentle glow.  Women seem impervious to cold.

The door opened.  Warm, kitcheny scents came through it.  Strong men hurried out to take down the trunks, while fair women, in the shape of two nervous scullery maids, approached Joan and Ashe, and bobbed curtsies.  This under more normal conditions would have been enough to unman Ashe; but in his frozen state a mere curtsying scullery maid expended herself harmlessly on him.  He even acknowledged the greeting with a kindly nod.

The scullery maids, it seemed, were acting in much the same capacity as the attaches of royalty.  One was there to conduct Joan to the presence of Mrs. Twemlow, the housekeeper; the other to lead Ashe to where Beach, the butler, waited to do honor to the valet of the castle’s most important guest.

After a short walk down a stone-flagged passage Joan and her escort turned to the right.  Ashe’s objective appeared to be located to the left.  He parted from Joan with regret.  Her moral support would have been welcome.

Presently his scullery maid stopped at a door and tapped thereon.  A fruity voice, like old tawny port made audible, said:  “Come in!” Ashe’s guide opened the door.

“The gentleman, Mr. Beach,” said she, and scuttled away to the less rarefied atmosphere of the kitchen.