The House.
The Hall
Eighteen was built in 1794 and has been a house, a legation, a solicitor’s chambers and, for eleven regrettable years, a bank. The stone stair is original. Everything else has been put back the way it should have been left.
The Bar
The bar takes the front room, where the windows run floor to ceiling and the afternoon light lasts longest. Walnut, Carrara, a brass rail worn thin at one end. Six stools, which is fewer than the room could hold and about right for the conversation. It opens at four and closes when it closes.
The Dining Room
One table, twelve places, laid the same way every day. The kitchen sends out four things at lunch and six at dinner, and will make something else if asked properly. Members dine together or not at all, which sounds severe until you have done it.
The Library
Three thousand volumes, most of them unread and a few of them irreplaceable. The chair by the window has been sat in since 1962 and shows it. Quiet here is a matter of convention rather than rule, which has proved more reliable.
The Rooms
Six rooms on the upper floors, for members who find themselves in town, or who would rather not go home. Linen, wool, a walnut bed, a window that opens. Nothing else, deliberately. Breakfast is at eight and is not negotiable.
The Garden
A walled garden at the back — York stone, jasmine on old brick, a bench that has been rained on for thirty years. It is not large. On this street, that it exists at all is the point.
