At first, certainly, their decent little old-time union, Maggie's and his own, had resembled a good deal some pleasant public square, in the heart of an old city, into which a great Palladian church, say--something with a grand architectural front--had suddenly been dropped; so that the rest of the place, the space in front, the way round, outside, to the east end, the margin of street and passage, the quantity of over-arching heaven, had been temporarily compromised.

Not even then, of a truth, in a manner disconcerting--given, that is, for the critical, or at least the intelligent, eye, the great style of the facade and its high place in its class.

The phenomenon that had since occurred, whether originally to have been pronounced calculable or not, had not, naturally, been the miracle of a night, but had taken place so gradually, quietly, easily, that from this vantage of wide, wooded Fawns, with its eighty rooms, as they said, with its spreading park, with its acres and acres of garden and its majesty of artificial lake--though that, for a person so familiar with the "great" ones, might be rather ridiculous--no visibility of transition showed, no violence of adjustment, in retrospect, emerged.

The Palladian church was always there, but the piazza took care of itself.

The sun stared down in his fulness, the air circulated, and the public not less; the limit stood off, the way round was easy, the east end was as fine, in its fashion, as the west, and there were also side doors for entrance, between the two--large, monumental, ornamental, in their style--as for all proper great churches.