Little, Big by John Crowley

nor is the fact that no trace of their bizarre and fruitless mysteries has survived to this day.
    "The house is still lived in by Drinkwater's heirs. There is reputed to be a genuine folly summer house on the (very extensive) grounds, but the house and grounds are not open to the public at any time."
    Elf?

Doctor Drinkwater's  Advice
    So we're supposed to have a chat," Dr. Drinkwater said. "Where would you like to sit?" Smoky took a club chair of buttoned leather. Dr. Drinkwater, on the chesterfield, ran his hand over his woolly head, sucked his teeth for a moment, then coughed in an introductory kind of way. Smoky awaited his first question.
    "Do you like animals?" he said.
    "Well," Smoky said, "I haven't known very many. My father liked dogs." Doctor Drinkwater nodded with a disappointed air. "I always lived in cities, or suburbs. I liked listening to the birds in the morning." He paused. "I've read your stories. I think they're . . . very true to life, I imagine." He smiled what he instantly realized to be a horridly ingratiating smile, but the Doctor didn't seem to notice. He only sighed deeply.
    "I suppose," he said, "you're aware of what you're getting into."
    Now Smoky cleared his throat in introduction. "Well, sir, of course I know I can't give Alice, well, the splendor she's used to, at least not for a while. I'm—in research. I've had a good education, not really formal, but I'm finding out how to use my, what I know. I might teach."
    "Teach?"
    "Classics."
    The doctor had been gazing upward at the high shelves burdened with dark volumes. "Um. This room gives me the willies. Go talk to the boy in the library, Mother says. I never come in here if I can help it. What is it you teach, did you say?"
    "Well, I don't yet. I'm—breaking into it."
    "Can you write? I mean write handwriting? That's very important for a teacher."
    "Oh, yes. I have a good hand." Silence. "I've got a little money, an inheritance. . . ."
    "Oh, money. There's no worry there. We're rich." He grinned at Smoky. "Rich as Croesus." He leaned back, clutching one flannel knee in his oddly small hands. "My grandfather's, mostly. He was an architect. And then my own, from the stories. And we've had good advice." He looked at Smoky in a strange, almost pitying way. "That you can always count on having—good advice." Then, as if he had delivered a piece of it himself, he unfolded his legs, slapped his knees, and got up. "Well. Time I was going. I'll see you at dinner? Good. Don't wear yourself out. You've got a long day tomorrow." He spoke this last out the door, so eager was he to go.

The Architecture  of Country Houses
    He had noticed them, behind glass doors up behind where Doctor Drinkwater had sat on the chesterfield; he got up now on his knees on the sofa, turned the convolute key in its lock, and slid open the door. There they were, six together, Just as the guidebook had said, neatly graduated in thickness. Around them, leaning together or stacked up horizontally, were others, other printings perhaps He took out the slimmest one, an inch or so thick. 
Arc hitecture of Country Houses
. Intaglie cover, with that "rustic" Victorian lettering (running biaswise) that sprouts twigs and leaves. The olive color of dead foliage. He riffled the heavy leaves. The Perpendicular, Full or Modified. The Italianate Villa, suitable for a residence on an open field or campagna. The Tudor and the Modified Neo-classical, here chastely on separate pages. The Cottage. The Manor. Each in its etched circumstances of poplars or pines, fountain or mountain, with little black visitors come to call, or were they the proud owners come to take possession? He thought that if all the plates were on glass, he could hold them all up at once to the mote-inhabited bar of sunlight from the window and Edgewood would appear whole. He read a bit of the text, which gave careful dimensions, optional fancies, full and funny accounting of costs (ten-dollar-a-week stonemasons long dead