“Joking,” Dogger said. “I understand. If you’ll be so good as to remove your boots and follow me …”

As Dogger closed the door behind him, McNulty stopped and gaped at his surroundings. He seemed particularly in awe of the two grand staircases that led up to the first floor.

“S’truth!” he said. “Do people actually live like this?”

“So I am given to believe,” Dogger said. “This way, please.”

I tagged along as Dogger gave McNulty a whirlwind tour: dining room, firearms museum, Rose Room, Blue Room, morning room …

“The drawing room and the Colonel’s study are off limits,” Dogger said, “as has been previously agreed upon. I have affixed a small white circle to each of those doors as a reminder, so that there will be no breach of—their privacy.”

He had almost said “our privacy.” I was sure of it.

“I’ll pass the word,” McNulty said. “Should be no sweat. Our lot’s pretty clannish, as well.”

We made our way through to the east wing and into the portrait gallery. I was half expecting to find it as it had been in my dream: an icy, flooded wasteland. But the room remained as it had been since time immemorial: a long dim train shed of glowering ancestors who, with just a few exceptions (Countess Daisy, for instance, who was said to have greeted visitors to Buckshaw by turning handsprings on the roof in a Chinese silk smock) seemed to have subsided, one and all, into a collective and perpetual sulk that did not exactly gladden one’s heart.

“Use of the portrait gallery has been negotiated—” Dogger was saying.

“But none of yer ’obnail boots on the floor, mind!” a voice cut in. It was Mrs. Mullet.

Hands on hips, she gave McNulty her proprietary glare, then in a softer voice said:

“Beggin’ your pardon, Dogger, but the Colonel’s off now to London for ’is stamp meet. ’E wishes to see you about the tinned beef, an’ that, before ’e goes.”