“I imagine,” said I, “that part of the difficulty is in the mixed character of the neighbourhood.  Here, on the one side, is old Gray’s Inn, not much changed since Bacon’s time—­his chambers are still to be seen, I think, over the gateway; and there, on the Clerkenwell side, is a dense and rather squalid neighbourhood which has grown up over a region partly rural and wholly fugitive in character.  Places like Bagnigge Wells and Hockley in the Hole would not have had many buildings that were likely to survive; and in the absence of surviving specimens the imagination hasn’t much to work from.”

“I daresay you are right,” said she.  “Certainly, the purlieus of old Clerkenwell present a very confused picture to me; whereas, in the case of an old street like, say, Great Ormond Street, one has only to sweep away the modern buildings and replace them with glorious old houses like the few that remain, dig up the roadway and pavements and lay down cobble-stones, plant a few wooden posts, hang up one or two oil-lamps, and the transformation is complete.  And a very delightful transformation it is.”

“Very delightful; which, by the way, is a melancholy thought.  For we ought to be doing better work than our forefathers; whereas what we actually do is to pull down the old buildings, clap the doorways, porticoes, panelling, and mantels in our museums, and then run up something inexpensive and useful and deadly uninteresting in their place.”

My companion looked at me and laughed softly.  “For a naturally cheerful, and even gay young man,” said she, “you are most amazingly pessimistic.  The mantle of Jeremiah—­if he ever wore one—­seems to have fallen on you, but without in the least impairing your good spirits excepting in regard to matters architectural.”

“I have much to be thankful for,” said I.  “Am I not taken to the Museum by a fair lady?  And does she not stay me with mummy cases and comfort me with crockery?”

“Pottery,” she corrected; and then, as we met a party of grave-looking women emerging from a side-street, she said:  “I suppose those are lady medical students.”

“Yes, on their way to the Royal Free Hospital.  Note the gravity of their demeanour and contrast it with the levity of the male student.”

“I was doing so,” she answered, “and wondering why professional women are usually so much more serious than men.”

“Perhaps,” I suggested, “it is a matter of selection.  A peculiar type of woman is attracted to the professions, whereas every man has to earn his living as a matter of course.”

“Yes, I daresay that is the explanation.  This is our turning.”