The girl made no answer.
“I really think,” said Thompson, “that you ought to pay a visit to the cathedral. You’ll like it, you really will. And you’ve got hours before you. I don’t see how you can fill in the time if you don’t go to the cathedral.”
“Thank you,” said the girl without turning round.
“I’m not going there,” said Thompson, “or I’d offer to show you the way. But you can’t miss it. You can see the spire from the window. It’s the finest specimen of early Gothic in the north of France. The glass is superb. There’s an altar piece by Raphael or Botticelli, I forget which. The screen is late Italian Renaissance, and there’s a tomb in the west transept which is supposed to be that of the Venerable Bede.”
The girl got up and walked out of the room. I was not surprised.
“Thompson,” I said, “what do you mean by behaving like a cad? Any one could see that she is a nice girl; a lady, not that sort at all.”
Thompson grinned.
“And as for that rigmarole of yours about the cathedral—what the devil do you know about Italian Renaissance, or Botticelli or early Gothic? I never heard such rot in my life. As a matter of fact I’ve always heard that the glass in this cathedral is poor.”
“All the same,” said Thompson, “if she goes there she’ll be pleased. She’ll find something she’ll like a great deal better than stained glass.”
“As for the Venerable Bede,” I said, “he was buried in Oxford if he was buried anywhere, and I don’t know that he was. He might have been cremated, or minced up by high explosives so that they couldn’t bury him.”