He had expected something old and baronial.
But this was new, raw and new, not twenty years built.

Some madness had prompted its creator to set up a replica of a Tudor house in a countryside where the thing was unheard of.

All the tricks were there--oriel windows, lozenged panes, high twisted chimney stacks; the very stone was red, as if to imitate the mellow brick of some ancient Kentish manor.

It was new, but it was also decaying.

The creepers had fallen from the walls, the pilasters on the terrace were tumbling down, lichen and moss were on the doorsteps.