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    How shall I describe The Vyne? I suppose from its initial aspect,as one turns off the Sherborne St. John road half a mile past the village, into the long expanse of lane leading to the house. On every side are groupings of copses surrounded by empty meadows, the very sort of ground a man like William Chute must value for sport. He is Master of The Vyne Hunt, a distinction accorded him by his neighbours, in recognition of the fact that he has bred and maintained the best pack of foxhounds known in the entire country. But I was speaking of the great house—which deserves to be as admired as Hatfield or Stratfield Saye, both its neighbours. The Vyne has presided over this part of Hampshire since medieval times; sheltered Anne Boleyn and Henry VIII under its roof; holds the tomb of the first Speaker of Parliament; and gave up a Recusant traitor to execution in Queen Elizabeth’s Tower. The present family have no direct claim upon this illustrious history, The Vyne having passed through more ancient hands to modern cousins. But the house itself recalls vanished dignities. Its south front, complete with sweep and porch and flanking towers, is mellow Tudor brick; its north front is a Neoclassical dream, rising from a lake, with specimen trees dotted across its lawn. There is even a portico, all columns and pediment, designed by a disciple of Inigo Jones.
    John Coachman pulled up his horses before the south porch and immediately two liveried footmen helped us from the carriage. In the interval required for our journey, the weak Christmas sun had vanished, and tho’ the hour was not much past two o’clock, a determined dusk appeared to be falling. The temperature had also plummeted. I placed an arm around Caroline’s shoulders and hurried her inside.
    The entrance hall of The Vyne is one of the most remarkable sights in Hampshire, being deeper than it is wide, and almost entirely filled with an Adamesque staircase designed in the last century by the late John Chute—an aesthete, world traveller, sometime-architect, and bosom friend of Horace Walpole. As a member of the StrawberryHill Set (named for Walpole’s Gothick home), the vanished Chute placed Taste above everything—even the continuation of his family line. He spent his hours collecting antiquities and designing monuments for The Vyne’s famous chapel; and tho’ his fanciful fretwork of white-panelled steps still rises triumphantly at the centre of the house, the estate passed to a secondary line at John Chute’s death.
    Caroline was staring open-mouthed at the staircase; the pillars and railings that defined it were wrapt with heavy garlands of holly and bay, tied up with gold silk ribbon. The scent of greens mingled with the smell of beeswax and clove. Having been treated to the delights of The Vyne these twenty years at least, I occupied myself in drawing off my gloves while the child stared.
    “Is that a Yule log, Aunt Jane?” she enquired, pointing at the great oak trunk, twice Caroline’s girth, smouldering on the hearth.
    “It is, my sweet. They will have lighted it last evening, I daresay. You may watch it burn down slowly whilst you are here.”
    “Too slowly.” Beside me, Cassandra shivered; the heat provided by the log was prevented from reaching us by the quantity of architecture filling the middle of the room.
    “Mrs. Austen! And all the Austens, exactly as I had hoped and desired! It is too good of you to travel across the country like this. I hope you find that our Christmas cheer is equal to expectation.” Elizabeth Chute is a handsome lady some five years older than I, whose snapping dark eyes and carefully arranged toilette proclaim the lady of Fashion. Today she wore cherry-red sarcenet, with a braided trim of chocolate, and a figured turban becomingly set in her dark hair. I first dined with the Chutes, some fifteen years since, and have danced in Eliza’s drawing-room—and I may say that on this occasion she appeared in as