We reached this place by some winding road, inscrutable in the night, and I wondered keenly what sort of an atmosphere it would have. The English suburban or country home of the better class has always been a concrete thought to me--rather charming on the whole. A carriage brought us, with all the bags and trunks carefully looked after (in England you always keep your luggage with you), and we were met in the hall by the maid who took our coats and hats and brought us something to drink. There was a small fire glowing in the fireplace in the entrance hall, but it was so small--cheerful though it was--that I wondered why Barfleur had taken all the trouble to send a wireless from the sea to have it there. It seems it is a custom, in so far as his house is concerned, not to have it. But having heard something of English fires and English ideas of warmth, I was not greatly surprised. “I am going to be cold,” I said to myself, at once. “I know it. The atmosphere is going to be cold and raw and I am going to suffer greatly. It will be the devil and all to write.” I fancy this is a very fair and pretty example of the average country home near London, and it certainly lacks none of the appointments which might be considered worthy of a comfortable home; but it is as cold as a sepulcher, and I can’t understand the evoluted system of procedure which has brought about any such uncomfortable state and maintains it as satisfactory. These Britons are actually warm when the temperature in the room is somewhere between forty-five and fifty and they go about opening doors and windows with the idea that the rooms need additional airing. They build you small, weak coal fires in large, handsome fireplaces, and then if the four or five coals huddled together are managing to keep themselves warm by glowing, they tell you that everything is all right (or stroll about, at least, looking as though it were). Doors are left open; the casement windows flung out, everything done to give the place air and draughtiness. “Now,” said my host, with his usual directness of speech, as I stood with my back to the hall fireplace, “I think it is best that you should go to bed at once and get a good night’s rest. In the morning you shall have your breakfast at whatever hour you say. Your bath will be brought you a half or three-quarters of an hour before you appear at table, so that you will have ample time to shave and dress. I shall be here until eleven-fifteen to see how you are getting along, after which I shall go to the city. You shall have a table here, or wherever you like, and the maid will serve your luncheon punctually at two o’clock. At half past four your tea will be brought to you, in case you are here. In the evening we dine at seven-thirty. I shall be down on the five fifty-two train.”