The Obsidian Suite is entered rather than arrived at. The door is heavy, the corridor light stops at the threshold, and what waits inside is darker and warmer than the hotel that leads to it — oak, brass, and lamps set low enough to read by and no lower.

It is a suite that keeps its own hours. Afternoon barely registers here. Evening is when the rooms come into their own, and by midnight the whole floor has gone quiet around you. Nothing in it asks for your attention, which is precisely why it holds it.

The proportions are older than the furnishings. The ceilings sit lower here, the walls are thicker, and the windows are set deep enough to lean in. The restoration kept the timber and changed almost everything else, so the suite reads as old without behaving like it.

It suits the guest who arrives late and sleeps later. Turn-down comes at nine unless you say otherwise, the lamps are lowered for you, and after that no one knocks. Breakfast is brought in whenever the day begins, which in this suite is rarely before ten.