That summer Ambrose went to Europe, and spent his holiday in a frugal walking-tour through Brittany.  When he came back he seemed refreshed by his respite from business cares and from the interminable revision of his cherished scheme; while contact with the concrete manifestations of beauty had, as usual, renewed his flagging ardour.

“By Jove,” he cried, “whenever I indulged my unworthy eyes in a long gaze at one of those big things—­picture or church or statue—­I kept saying to myself:  ’You lucky devil, you, to be able to provide such a sight as that for eyes that can make some good use of it!  Isn’t it better to give fifty fellows a chance to paint or carve or build, than to be able to daub canvas or punch clay in a corner all by yourself?’”

“Well,” I said, when he had worked off his first ebullition, “when is the foundation stone to be laid?”

His excitement dropped.  “The foundation stone—?”

“When are you going to touch the electric button that sets the thing going?”

Paul, with his hands in his sagging pockets, began to pace the library hearth-rug—­I can see him now, setting his shabby red slippers between its ramified cabbages.

“My dear fellow, there are one or two points to be considered still—­one or two new suggestions I picked up over there—­”

I sat silent, and he paused before me, flushing to the roots of his thin hair.  “You think I’ve had time enough—­that I ought to have put the thing through before this?  I suppose you’re right; I can see that even Ned Halidon thinks so; and he has always understood my difficulties better than you have.”

This insinuation exasperated me.  “Ned would have put it through years ago!” I broke out.

Paul pulled at his straggling moustache.  “You mean he has more executive capacity?  More—­no, it’s not that; he’s not afraid to spend money, and I am!” he suddenly exclaimed.

He had never before alluded to this weakness to either of us, and I sat abashed, suffering from his evident distress.  But he remained planted before me, his little legs wide apart, his eyes fixed on mine in an agony of voluntary self-exposure.

“That’s my trouble, and I know it.  Big sums frighten me—­I can’t look them in the face.  By George, I wish Ned had the carrying out of this scheme—­I wish he could spend my money for me!” His face was lit by the reflection of a passing thought.  “Do you know, I shouldn’t wonder if I dropped out of the running before either of you chaps, and in case I do I’ve half a mind to leave everything in trust to Halidon, and let him put the job through for me.”

“Much better have your own fun with it,” I retorted; but he shook his head, saying with a sigh as he turned away:  “It’s not fun to me—­that’s the worst of it.”

Halidon, to whom I could not help repeating our talk, was amused and touched by his friend’s thought.