‘Willingly,’ said Somerset. ‘The date of those towers and arches is matter of absolute certainty from the details. That they should have been built before the Conquest is as unlikely as, say, that the rustiest old gun with a percussion lock should be older than the date of Waterloo.’ ‘How I wish I knew something precise of an art which makes one so independent of written history!’ Mr. Havill had lapsed into a mannerly silence that was only sullenness disguised. Paula turned her conversation to Miss De Stancy, who had simply looked from one to the other during the discussion, though she might have been supposed to have a prescriptive right to a few remarks on the matter. A commonplace talk ensued, till Havill, who had not joined in it, privately began at Somerset again with a mixed manner of cordiality, contempt, and misgiving. ‘You have a practice, I suppose, sir?’ ‘I am not in practice just yet.’ ‘Just beginning?’ ‘I am about to begin.’ ‘In London, or near here?’ ‘In London probably.’ ‘H’m.... I am practising in Markton.’ ‘Indeed. Have you been at it long?’ ‘Not particularly. I designed the chapel built by this lady’s late father; it was my first undertaking--I owe my start, in fact, to Mr. Power. Ever build a chapel?’ ‘Never. I have sketched a good many churches.’ ‘Ah--there we differ. I didn’t do much sketching in my youth, nor have I time for it now. Sketching and building are two different things, to my mind. I was not brought up to the profession--got into it through sheer love of it. I began as a landscape gardener, then I became a builder, then I was a road contractor. Every architect might do worse than have some such experience. But nowadays ‘tis the men who can draw pretty pictures who get recommended, not the practical men. Young prigs win Institute medals for a pretty design or two which, if anybody tried to build them, would fall down like a house of cards; then they get travelling studentships and what not, and then they start as architects of some new school or other, and think they are the masters of us experienced ones.’ While Somerset was reflecting how far this statement was true, he heard the voice of Paula inquiring, ‘Who can he be?’ Her eyes were bent on the window. Looking out, Somerset saw in the mead beyond the dry ditch, Dare, with his photographic apparatus. ‘He is the young gentleman who called about taking views of the castle,’ said Charlotte. ‘O yes--I remember; it is quite right. He met me in the village and asked me to suggest him some views. I thought him a respectable young fellow.’ ‘I think he is a Canadian,’ said Somerset. ‘No,’ said Paula, ‘he is from the East--at least he implied so to me.’ ‘There is Italian blood in him,’ said Charlotte brightly. ‘For he spoke to me with an Italian accent. But I can’t think whether he is a boy or a man.’