Each villa faced you in the sunshine with the horrid glare of new red brick, and forced its nonsensical name on your attention, traced in bright paint on the posts of its entrance gate.

Consulting the posts as he advanced, Mr.Troy arrived in due course of time at the villa called The Lawn, which derived its name apparently from a circular patch of grass in front of the house.

The gate resisting his efforts to open it, he rang the bell.
Admitted by a trim, clean, shy little maid-servant, Mr.Troy looked about him in amazement.

Turn which way he might, he found himself silently confronted by posted and painted instructions to visitors, which forbade him to do this, and commanded him to do that, at every step of his progress from the gate to the house.

On the side of the lawn a label informed him that he was not to walk on the grass.