The architect sat down on the edge of Stacey’s desk. “But,” he suggested tentatively, “you don’t feel your old delight in it? Or do you?”
“When there’s any occasion,” said Stacey. “There, for instance.” And he pulled from a mass of papers a drawing of a detail—a wrought-iron balcony for a window. His eyes showed pleasure.
“Yes. By Jove, yes! That is good Stacey! Fine and—sure at the same time. You’re better than you used to be. For Henderson’s house? Pity it’s so sort of wasted. I mean, that it won’t be appreciated.”
“Oh, I don’t feel that,” Stacey replied. “I feel that it’s worth while enough to do anything good, even a molding for a room,—I don’t know why.”
Mr. Parkins looked surprised. “Well, that’s the right way to feel, of course. There’s one thing certain,” he added, getting up. “You go into the firm the first of the month. And there’s no favoritism about that, either.”
“All right,” said Stacey. “Thanks. It’s awfully good of you.” And he went to work again.
What Mr. Parkins had said was true. Stacey was a better architect than formerly. He was still affectionately interested in detail, because that interest had always been a part of him, and he knew enough now to understand calmly that nothing in one ever vanished; but he saw things in a larger, more solid way than once.
Hammond, a younger man who was put under Stacey’s guidance, questioned him about Stacey’s preliminary sketch for a competition. It was of a great stone bridge that was to cross both branches of the river in the heart of the railway and warehouse section.
“Don’t you think it’s maybe a little—oh, well, grim, Carroll?” asked Hammond, puzzled.
“Good Lord! man,” said Stacey, “think where it is—mud, noise, confusion!”