“Oh, it’s you, is it? Well, just come and look.” There was suppressed exultation in his voice.
John scrambled on to the platform, came alongside Corin,—Corin who pointed with a triumphant chisel.
Some half-dozen or so square yards of wall had been cleared of many coats of plaster, and there, on the original groundwork, stood out thin red lines vertical and horizontal, flowers in bold outline.
“Masonry, they call it,” announced Corin, “and the flower is the herb Robert. Isn’t it gorgeous?”
Now to the purely uninitiated, to the mere casual observer, the adverb might have appeared unduly extravagant. What, such a one might have demanded, was there in a few crude brush lines to justify this mode of speech? Yet John, artist though he was not, understood, and not only understood, but endorsed to the full Corin’s rapture. Here was the work of age-old centuries, the frank expression of some long-ago-forgotten painter, brought once more to the light of day. Fresh as when first limned the simple lines glowed crimson from the cream-coloured surface of the wall.
“It’s—it’s fine,” said John simply.
Corin, radiant, beaming, waved his chisel in a comprehensive sweep around the walls.
“And think,” cried he exultant, “what more there may be, there assuredly is, to find. Think what further glories this plaster hides. Man, it’s hard to restrain one’s impatience and not hack, which would be a truly disastrous proceeding.”
John laughed.
Then, “Try another spot,” he urged. “Here, close by the east window. I’ll not divert the stroke of the chisel by the faintest whisper.”