Upstairs in the Belvedere was a sort of snuggery, fitted with a Swedish stove, Napoléon’s campaign bed, and an assortment of cushions for the various dogs we had collected—Betony (the earl’s Caucasian sheepdog), Nut (an Egyptian hound of Stoker’s), Huxley (his bulldog), and my own noble Vespertine, a deerhound of great distinction. We took luncheon with them and later tea, spending the afternoon in a haze of cozy domestic bliss as we read through our correspondence, skimmed newspapers, and crumbled scones for the dogs.
