As we stand on the doorstep, the valley opens out before us, stretching far to the south, and revealing reaches of lake and river, broad waving meadows and clustering villages, wild crags and pine-clad fells.
We, however, do not stand on the doorstep to admire the view, or even to ask admission.

We have the storyteller's latchkey and invisible cap.
Let us enter.

As we stand in the great square hall, hung round in baronial style with antlers, and furnished in all the luxury of modern comfort, wondering through which of the dozen doors that open out of the square it would be best worth our while to penetrate, a footman, bearing a tray with afternoon tea, flits past us.

Let us follow him, for afternoon tea means that living creatures are at hand.
We find ourselves in a snug little boudoir, furnished and decorated with feminine skill and taste, and commanding through the open French windows a gorgeous view down the valley.

Two ladies, one middle-aged, one young, are sitting there as the footman enters.