“The cloister will come at the back of the chapel, and an arched and vaulted ambulatory will be laid round the house.  Later on I shall add a refectory, and put a lavatory at one end of the ambulatory.”

“But don’t you think, John, you may get tired of being a monk, and then the house will have to be built back again.”

“Never, the house will be from every point of view, a better house when my alterations are carried into effect.  Beside, why should I be tired of being a monk?  Your father does not get tired of being a parson.”

This reply, although singularly unconvincing, was difficult to answer, and the conversation fell.  And day by day, John’s schemes strengthened and took shape, and he seemed to look upon himself already as a Carmelite.  He had even gone so far as to order a habit, it had arrived a few days ago; and an architect, too, had come down from London.  He was the ray of hope in Mrs Norton’s life.  For although he had loudly commended the artistic taste exhibited in the drawing, and expressed great wonderment at John’s architectural skill, he had, nevertheless, when questioned as to their practicability, declared the scheme to be wholly impossible.  And the reasons he advanced in support of his opinions were so conclusive that John was fain to beg of him to draw up a more possible plan for the conversion of an Italian house into a Gothic monastery.

Mr ——­ seemed to think the idea a wild one, but he promised to see what could be done to overcome the difficulties he foresaw, and in a week he forwarded John several drawings for his consideration.  Judged by comparison with John’s dreams, the practical architecture of the experienced man seemed altogether lacking in expression and in poetry of proportion; and comparing them with his own cherished project, John hung over the billiard-table, where the drawings were laid out, hour after hour, only to rise more bitterly fretful, more utterly unable than usual to reconcile himself to natural limitation, more hopelessly longing for the unattainable.

He could think of nothing but his monastery; his Latin authors were forgotten; he drew facades and turrets on the cloth during dinner, and he went up to his room, not to bed, but to reconsider the difficulties that rendered the construction of a central tower an impossibility.

Midnight:  the house seems alive in the silence:  night is on the world.  The twilight sheds on the walking birds, on the falling petals, and in the rich shadow the candle burns brightly.  The great bridal bed yawns, the lace pillows lie wide, the curtains hang dreamily in the hallowed light.  John leans over his drawings.  Once again he takes up the architect’s notes.

“The interior would be so constructed as to make it impossible to carry up the central tower.  The outer walls would not be strong enough to take the large gables and roof.  Although the chapel could be done easily, the ambulatory would be of no use, as it would lead probably from the kitchen offices.