LOUISE DESJARDINS<br/><br/>As we entered the house I was struck at once by the temperature: whitewashed walls, stone flagged floors, some covered with bright rugs that looked Moroccan or Persian and large potted plants all combined to form a wonderful sense of calm, cool and clarity. There was even a small pebbled water feature chuckling away on a pedestal in the main hall, adding to the sense of detachment from, and contrast to, the furnace outside. A wide red-tiled staircase with a black metal rail at one side of the entrance hall promised access to the upper parts of the house. Against the same wall and directly beneath, it a further stair led to gloomy unknown depths. One or two spectacular bold abstract canvases adorned the walls and I tried to get a look at these but had no time to pause as we went by.<br/><br/>The gentleman with the white and black hair who had introduced himself as Carstairs, the butler, was English and I assumed would be my immediate boss, should my application be accepted. We spoke a short exchange at the doorway and then, mentally trying my best to shift gear to English speech, I followed him obediently and quickly while dawdling just enough to look around me in wonder at this beautiful house.<br/><br/>We entered a side passage off the main rooms and then a small office with desk, chair, safe, bookcases and such. I closed the door behind me and put my bag by the wall, wondering if I should sit but deciding not to unless I was invited.<br/>