who seemed in the modern disinfected smell of the place like the
last guard of mediaevalism, greeted us as we alighted from our
car; a great, powerful soldier he was, with white and gold on his
scarlet broadcloth. He showed us into a passage where the minister
waited who was to take us to the Duke. The minister led us down a
long stately gallery, out of the twentieth century into the fifteenth,
where at the end of the gallery a most remarkably caparisoned
servant stood at attention. He wore a scarlet coat of unimaginable
vividness, a cut-away coat of glaring scarlet broadcloth. But we
could have passed that easily enough. The thing that held us was
his blue plush knee breeches. It didn't seem fitting that a man in
this age of work and wisdom should wear shimmering blue plush knee
breeches for everyday. He was a big fellow and puffy. And the
scarlet coat and blue breeches certainly gave the place an olden
golden air. But alas! The twentieth century burst in. For he bowed
us to an elevator--a modern Chicago elevator inspected by an accident
company, guaranteeing the passengers against injuries! From the
elevator we were emptied into a nineteenth century corridor, guarded
by a twentieth century soldier and then we were turned by him into
a waiting room. It was floored with marquetry, ceiled with brown
and gold decoration--but modern enough--and walled in old tapestry.
The room expressed the ornate impotent gorgeousness of a useless
leisure class. Four or five tables, cases and stands, backed
standoffishly against the tapestry on the walls, and the legs and
bases of this furniture were great--unbelievably great, rococo
gilded legs--legs that writhed and twisted themselves in a sheening
agony of impossible forms, before they resigned themselves to
dropping to the floor in distress.

Henry nudged me as our Kansas eyes bugged out at the Byzantine