But Mon Repos was a great towering Gothic house perched on the edge of a barren cliff and set about with spires and turrets and gargoyles. Elinor Glynn would have loved it. A fine, powdery snow was blowing in from the sea as Lucy and MacGregor alighted. To heighten the Gothic effect, flambeaux flared from sconces in the walls, sputtering and smoking in the bitter wind. The entrance hall was a veritable armory of halberds and suits of armor. Ancient flags fluttered in the drafts high up on the beamed roof and Lucy only learned much later that they were modern and that Mr. Jones had paid a great deal to have them cleverly faded, tattered, and frayed. A powdered footman with a bad case of temper—Lucy wondered if his hair hurt him—led them to the first floor where they were to leave their cloaks. Another bad-tempered footman—it must be the hair—accosted them outside and marched them along a complicated series of passages which suddenly opened into a circular hallway where Mr. Jones himself stood at the top of the stairs leading down into the ballroom, to receive his guests.
