“Here we serve our breakfast,” announced Mr. Hawtrey proudly. He took a step back so that Werner and Helen could peer inside.

There were roughly twenty round tables decked with white linen and surrounded by upholstered chairs. Eggplant-colored carpet, wood paneling running up to the ceiling.

“How beautiful,” answered Helen in her best English.

Mr. Hawtrey took obvious pleasure in her remark. He was the fourth generation of his family to work at the hotel, and he went on to tell them about the manor house’s walled gardens, where the chefs grew fruit and vegetables for use in the hotel kitchens. “You’ll look back very fondly on our jam.”

The tour continued. Mr. Hawtrey led them into a long corridor with a Persian carpet running the full length of the parquet floor. Everywhere you looked, there were oil paintings and side tables laden with sculptures, bouquets of dried flowers, and ornamental dishes. They wandered up and down staircases, passed through hallways lined with antique clocks and yet more art. In one softly lit room, they encountered a handful of respectably dressed guests drinking tea. Helen saw tiered cake stands covered with petits fours, and somebody was playing a grand piano. A large staircase led to the oldest part of the building.

“This wing dates back to the fifteenth century,” said Mr. Hawtrey.

The floor of the corridor was creaky and slightly crooked.

“Your room.” Mr. Hawtrey opened the door and ushered Helen and Werner inside.

Their suitcases were already there, standing at the foot of the enormous four-poster bed. Mr. Hawtrey pointed out the TV, “the coffee- and tea-making facilities,” the iPad and docking station on top of the walnut desk—all of which clashed somewhat with the antique furniture. The adjoining bathroom was set a few steps down from the bedroom; resembling a chapel, it was laid out in gleaming travertine with brass faucets. The bath was built into a niche and had a small Gothic-style window above it. According to Mr. Hawtrey, the stone windowsill was nearly six centuries old, though the lead-lined stained glass had been installed at a later date. After concluding his explanation, he vanished noiselessly.

“This place is like a fairy tale,” said Helen. “That man!”

“Straight out of Alice in Wonderland.”

A picture frame standing on the marble mantelpiece drew Helen’s attention. She picked it up. Behind the glass lay a sheet of paper with text printed on it. She read:

Our hotel is set in ninety-three acres of garden and parkland, which were created by Frederick DuCane Godman, an eminent nineteenth-century botanist. Please feel welcome, when taking a stroll around the gardens, to pick flowers for your room and place them in the vase provided.

“Amazing! You need to hear this.” She read it out loud to Werner.

“What a great idea.” Werner’s eyes twinkled. “Get your guests to pick their own flowers and tell them it’s a privilege. Genius.”