Under his widening gaze it was transformed
into a substantial object of cubes and gables and--yes, windows.
He was looking upon the strange home of the even stranger Mr. Curtis:
Green Fancy.
Now he understood why it was called Green Fancy. Its surroundings were
no greener than itself; it seemed to melt into the foliage, to become
a part of the natural landscape. For a long time he stood stock-still,
studying the curious structure. Mountain ivy literally enveloped it.
Exposed sections of the house were painted green,--a mottled green
that seemed to indicate flickering sunbeams against an emerald wall.
The doors were green; the leafy porches and their columns, the chimney
pots, the window hangings,--all were the colour of the unchanging
forest. And it was a place of huge dimensions, low and long and
rambling. It seemed to have been forcibly jammed into the steep slope
that shot high above its chimneys; the mountain hung over its vine
clad roof, an ominous threat of oblivion.
There was no lawn, no indication of landscape gardening, and yet
Barnes was singularly impressed by the arrangement of the shrubbery
that surrounded the place. There was no visible approach to the house
through the thick, unbroken sea of green; everywhere was dense
underbrush, standing higher than the head of the tallest of men,--
clean, bright bushes, revealing the most astonishing uniformity in
size and character.
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