Dorothea sat counting her guests, and assuring herself that the number
of teacups would suffice. She had heard the lecture many times before,
and with repetition its sonorous periods had lost hold upon her,
although her brother had been at pains to model them upon Gibbon.
But the scene impressed her sharply, and she carried away a very
lively picture of it. The old Roman villa had been built about a
hollow square open to the sky, and this square now formed the great
hall of Bayfield. Deep galleries of two stories surrounded it, in
place of the old colonnaded walk. Out of these opened the principal
rooms of the house, and above them, upon a circular lantern of clear
glass, was arched a painted dome. Sheathed on the outside with green
weather-tinted copper, and surmounted by a gilt ball, this dome (which
could be seen from the Axcester High Street when winter stripped the
Bayfield elms) gave the building something of the appearance of an
observatory.
On the north side of the hall a broad staircase descended from the
gallery to the tiled floor, in the midst of which a fountain played
beneath a cupola supported by slender columns. On the west the recess
beneath the gallery had been deepened to admit a truly ample fireplace,
with a flat hearthstone and andirons. Here were screens and rich Turkey
rugs, and here the Bayfield household ordinarily had the lamps set
after dinner and gathered before the fire, talking little, enjoying the
long pauses filled with the hiss of logs and the monotonous drip and
trickle of water in the penumbra.
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