The explanation of this rather striking contrast is simple enough. At the time of the cotton famine in the sixties Llanabba House was the property of a prosperous Lancashire millowner. His wife could not bear to think of their men starving; in fact, she and her daughters organized a little bazaar in their aid, though without any very substantial results. Her husband had read the Liberal economists and could not think of paying without due return. Accordingly 'enlightened self‑interest' found a way. An encampment of mill‑hands was settled in the park, and they were put to work walling the grounds and facing the house with great blocks of stone from a neighbouring quarry. At the end of the American war they returned to their mills, and Llanabba House became Llanabba Castle after a great deal of work had been done very cheaply.
Driving up from the station in a little closed taxi, Paul saw little of all this. It was almost dark in the avenue and quite dark inside the house.
'I am Mr Pennyfeather, he said to the butler. 'I have come here as a master.
'Yes, said the butler, 'I know all about you. This way.
They went down a number of passages, unlit and smelling obscurely of all the ghastly smells of school, until they reached a brightly lighted door.
'In there. That's the Common Room. Without more ado, the butler made off into the darkness.
Paul looked round. It was not a very big room. Even he felt that, and all his life he had been accustomed to living in constricted spaces.