They saw the high, oak-roofed Lady Chapel, which was lined with never-opened books, called a library, and used for a choir vestry. The light streamed through its lovely window upon dog-eared piles of Tallis's chant-books. And in the North Transept, they stood in front of an immense and decorated Georgian memorial for which pillars had been broken and carvings cut away, a memorial which was approached still by ancient altar steps, and on the top of which reposed a Georgian figure in coloured stone who reclined upon his side, one elbow propping up his bewigged head, and one hand, with lace at the wrist, frozen for ever in a timeless pat upon a bulging stomach. Judson saw pleasant humanity in the effigy, the verger magnificence, Paul an artistic and religious abomination of desolation, and they all three ascribed their own feelings to the all-seeing deity. The sunlight continued to dapple the stone which ever way it was. They went, also, to Fountains Abbey. Judson expressed contempt for the decadent English aristocracy, excited thereto by some subtle influence arising from the well-cut, trim lawns, and much admired the view of a classical temple which is to be seen through a well-placed gap. He admired it to the extent of a pipe upon the spot. Within the ruin, Paul sat on a fallen stone, and fell on silence. Returning from a tour of inspection, Judson surveyed him with amusement. "Are you brooding upon a sonnet, Kestern?" he enquired, feeling for his matches again. Paul's tragic youth forbade him to reply. "Well, those blessed monks of yours did themselves proud, anyway," continued his companion. Puff-puff. "Wonder if we could get up a picnic here." The distant hoot of a char-a-banc appeared more or less to answer him. "Thank God it's a ruin," said Paul savagely; "let's go." "Wonder how long it took 'em to build it," remarked Judson as they walked away. "Generations," said Paul. "When they first came, they starved in the forest on berries while they ploughed and planted lands, and lived in daub and wattle huts. Slowly, piece by piece, they raised all that, to the honour and glory of God. The place was a prayer in stone." "They knew how to choose a site," remarked the practical Judson. "Wonder if it could be repaired?" "And I wonder if it was answered," said Paul. "What?" "The prayer. Does the ruin look like it?" "You're a rum ass," said Judson affectionately. Paul kicked a stone savagely from his path. "I'm sick of being called a rum ass by everyone," he said. "I see nothing rum or asinine in what I said." "You wouldn't," said Judson. "But then we aren't all poets," he added. "Nor am I," retorted Paul gloomily, "and anyhow what I said had nothing to do with poetry." "Well, let's get lunch at that place by the gate. The poetry in a ham sandwich is what I want at present." Paul returned to earth. "I could do with two," he echoed with enthusiasm. (6)