* * * * *
We all went to an evening service last night. It was an ‘occasion,’ and a famous organist played the Minster organ.
I wonder why choir-boys are so often [p68] playful and fidgety and uncanonical in behaviour? Does the choirmaster advertise ‘Naughty boys preferred,’ or do musical voices commonly exist in unregenerate bodies? With all the opportunities they must have outside of the cathedral to exchange those objects of beauty and utility usually found in boys’ pockets, there is seldom a service where they do not barter penknives, old coins, or tops, generally during the Old Testament reading. A dozen little black-surpliced ‘probationers’ sit together in a seat just beneath the choir-boys, and one of them spent his time this evening in trying to pull a loose tooth from its socket. The task not only engaged all his own powers, but made him the centre of attraction for the whole probationary row.
Coming home, Aunt Celia walked ahead with Mrs. Benedict, who keeps turning up at the most unexpected moments. She’s going to build a Gothicky memorial chapel [p69] somewhere, and is making studies for it. I don’t like her in the least, but four is certainly a more comfortable number than three. I scarcely ever have a moment alone with Mr. Copley, for, go where I will and do what I please, as Aunt Celia has the most perfect confidence in my indiscretion, she is always en évidence.
Just as we were turning into the quiet little street where we are lodging, I said:
‘Oh dear, I wish that I really knew something about architecture!’
‘If you don’t know anything about it, you are certainly responsible for a good deal of it,’ said Mr. Copley.
‘I? How do you mean?’ I asked quite innocently, because I couldn’t see how he could twist such a remark as that into anything like sentiment.
‘I have never built so many castles in my life as since I’ve known you, Miss Schuyler,’ he said.
[p70]
‘Oh,’ I answered as lightly as I could, ‘air-castles don’t count.’