Great tawny ruin, presided over by your rotting seigneur, bless you for these days and things— the cavernous kitchen, holding its secrets; the beams in the bedroom still supporting the weight of the seventeenth century; the tall windows, gazing out and peering in at their memories; the mantel with its plastic travel clock and chinoiserie; the front door which—as a point of pride— is never locked, opening onto lichenous stone and flowers; the ancient, valuable, unlooked-at, dusty furniture; the one-eyed dancing dog, with his three-note bark.