“Then we can go back together. That church is considered very fine. Look at the spire.”
James looked with undisguised and genuine delight at the fair proportions and exquisite colouring of the building before him, and after various half-finished and inarticulate expressions of delight, exclaimed: “It’s intoxicating! Can’t we go in?”
“Not now. Mrs Tollemache will be waiting for us. There are a dozen such churches, besides the cathedral, and there’s an old amphitheatre, at least the remains of one.”
“Perish Oxley and its garden-parties in the ruins of its new town-hall and its detestable station,” cried James, mock-heroically, and striking an attitude.
“Then there’s a very good opera,” said Hugh—“and oh, wouldn’t the great singing-class be in your line to-morrow.”
“What singing-class?”
“Why, there’s a certain Signor Mattei here. He is first violin in the opera orchestra, and a very fine musician. I believe he followed music entirely from choice in the first instance.”
“Then I respect him,” said James. “What could he do better?”
“Exactly. I thought you would say so. Well, he has a great singing-class—more, I suppose, what would be called a choral society.”
“Yes,” said Jem; “I belong to the Gipsy Singers, and to Lady Newington’s Glee Society, and sometimes I run down to help the choir of that church at Richmond. I took you there once.”