Mrs Norton’s grief was his grief, but to stem the impulse that bore him along was too keen a pain to be endured.  His desire whelmed him like a wave; it filled his soul like a perfume, and against his will it rose to his lips in words.  Even when the servants were present he could not help discussing the architectural changes he had determined upon, and as the vision of the cloister, with its reading and chanting monks, rose to his head, he talked, blinded by strange enthusiasm, of latticed windows, and sandals.

His mother bit her thin lips, and her face tightened in an expression of settled grief.  Kitty was sorry for Mrs Norton, but Kitty was too young to understand, and her sorrow evaporated in laughter.  She listened to John’s explanations of the future as to a fairy tale suddenly touched with the magic of realism.  That the old could not exist in conjunction with the new order of things never grew into the painful precision of thought in her mind.  She saw but the show side; she listened as to an account of private theatricals, and in spite of Mrs Norton’s visible grief, she was amused when John described himself walking at the head of his monks with tonsured head and a great rosary hanging from a leather girdle.  Her innocent gaiety attracted her to him.  As they walked about the grounds after breakfast, he spoke to her about pictures and statues, of a trip he intended to take to Italy and Spain, and he did not seem to care to be reminded that this jarred with his project for immediate realisation of Thornby Priory.

Leaning their backs against the iron railing which divided the green sward from the park, John and Kitty looked at the house.

“From this view it really is not so bad, though the urns and the loggia are so intolerably out of keeping with the landscape.  But when I have made my alterations it will harmonise with the downs and the flat-flowing country, so English with its barns and cottages and rich agriculture, and there will be then a charming recollection of old England, the England of the monastic ages, before the—­but I forgot, I must not speak to you on that subject.”

“Do you think the house will look prettier than it does now?  Mrs Norton says that it will be impossible to alter Italian architecture into Gothic....  Of course I don’t understand.”

“Mother does not know what she is talking about.  I have it all down in my pocket-book.  I have various plans....  I admit it is not easy, but last night I fancy I hit on an idea.  I shall of course consult an architect, although really I don’t see there is any necessity for so doing, but just to be on the safe side; for in architecture there are many practical difficulties, and to be on the safe side I will consult an experienced man regarding the practical working out of my design.  I made this drawing last night.”  John produced a large pocket-book.

“But, oh, how pretty; will it be really like that?”

“Yes,” exclaimed John, delighted; “it will be exactly like that; but I will read you my notes, and then you will understand it better.