She listened attentively, then stretched up her own hand to test the cutting as he had done; she was not quite tall enough; she would step upon this piece of wood. Having done so she tried again, and succeeded in putting her finger on the spot. No; she could not understand it through her glove even now. She pulled off her glove, and, her hand resting in the stone channel, her eyes became abstracted in the effort of realization, the ideas derived through her hand passing into her face. ‘No, I am not sure now,’ she said. Somerset placed his own hand in the cavity. Now their two hands were close together again. They had been close together half-an-hour earlier, and he had sedulously avoided touching hers. He dared not let such an accident happen now. And yet--surely she saw the situation! Was the inscrutable seriousness with which she applied herself to his lesson a mockery? There was such a bottomless depth in her eyes that it was impossible to guess truly. Let it be that destiny alone had ruled that their hands should be together a second time. All rumination was cut short by an impulse. He seized her forefinger between his own finger and thumb, and drew it along the hollow, saying, ‘That is the curve I mean.’ Somerset’s hand was hot and trembling; Paula’s, on the contrary, was cool and soft as an infant’s. ‘Now the arch-mould,’ continued he. ‘There--the depth of that cavity is tremendous, and it is not geometrical, as in later work.’ He drew her unresisting fingers from the capital to the arch, and laid them in the little trench as before. She allowed them to rest quietly there till he relinquished them. ‘Thank you,’ she then said, withdrawing her hand, brushing the dust from her finger-tips, and putting on her glove. Her imperception of his feeling was the very sublimity of maiden innocence if it were real; if not, well, the coquetry was no great sin. ‘Mr. Somerset, will you allow me to have the Greek court I mentioned?’ she asked tentatively, after a long break in their discourse, as she scanned the green stones along the base of the arcade, with a conjectural countenance as to his reply. ‘Will your own feeling for the genius of the place allow you?’ ‘I am not a mediaevalist: I am an eclectic.’ ‘You don’t dislike your own house on that account.’ ‘I did at first--I don’t so much now.... I should love it, and adore every stone, and think feudalism the only true romance of life, if--’ ‘What?’ ‘If I were a De Stancy, and the castle the long home of my forefathers.’ Somerset was a little surprised at the avowal: the minister’s words on the effects of her new environment recurred to his mind. ‘Miss De Stancy doesn’t think so,’ he said. ‘She cares nothing about those things.’