The exterior of the house, which had been most “romantic” but obviously the front of poverty and decay, looked much better--not younger I hasten to assure you, quiet reader, but somewhat like a hairless, toothless old man when he gets a nice white wig on his pate and a set of good false teeth on his shriveled gums. I saw gardeners at work--and plenty there was for them to do. Within, I saw evidences of a more adequate staff of servants; but the great halls were dreary and bare and dingy. That was a cold summer in England, even colder than the summer usually is. So, the enormous house was literally uninhabitable, like all the European palaces, city and country, that I have been in. I can fancy what such a place must be in winter with no way of heating it but open fireplaces, and not many of them. I can’t conceive any sane American, used to comfort in the way of steam heat, spending a winter in the English country. I know it is done by Americans reputedly sane; but if those at home knew what Europe in winter meant--the old-fashioned “romantic” Europe--they would not believe their expatriated countrymen sane in sacrificing comfort and health to vanity. Yes, I believe they would; for, do not they, at home, make the same imbecile sacrifices to vanity in other ways? “Take me to some small warm room,” said I to Margot, “before I catch my death of cold.” This the instant I was within doors and felt in my very marrow the clammy chill of that picturesque vaulted hall. “There isn’t any warm room in the house,” replied she. “How about the kitchen?” said I. She looked alarmed--being her mother’s own daughter, in lack of the sense of humor as in many other ways. She said hastily: “The upstairs rooms are a little better.” “They couldn’t be worse. These rooms are cold storage.” “I’m getting used to it,” said she. “One doesn’t mind it so much after a while.” Her nose was red and swollen, and her voice husky. She had a frightful cold at that very moment. “Why don’t you get out of here and go to a decent modern hotel in town?” said I. “Give up possession!” cried she in horror. “He might not let me come back.” It was too ridiculous. “Possession of what?” said I. “Oh, _papa_!” cried she, in despair and shame at my coarse stupidity. “Possession of what?” I repeated. “Of a dirty, dingy old cold-storage plant. Why should you want to come back? Put on your wraps and let’s fly to town by the next train.” She burst into tears. “I’d rather die!” she sobbed. “I _won’t_ give up my position. I am Marchioness of Crossley and I belong here.” “All right,” said I. “Let’s try the smaller rooms.”