At ten o’clock they met in the same room, Paula appearing in a straw hat having a bent-up brim lined with plaited silk, so that it surrounded her forehead like a nimbus; and Somerset armed with sketch-book, measuring-rod, and other apparatus of his craft.
‘And Mr. Havill?’ said the young man.
‘I have not decided to employ him: if I do he shall go round with me independently of you,’ she replied rather brusquely.
Somerset was by no means sorry to hear this. His duty to Havill was done.
‘And now,’ she said, as they walked on together through the passages, ‘I must tell you that I am not a mediaevalist myself; and perhaps that’s a pity.’
‘What are you?’
‘I am Greek—that’s why I don’t wish to influence your design.’
Somerset, as they proceeded, pointed out where roofs had been and should be again, where gables had been pulled down, and where floors had vanished, showing her how to reconstruct their details from marks in the walls, much as a comparative anatomist reconstructs an antediluvian from fragmentary bones and teeth. She appeared to be interested, listened attentively, but said little in reply. They were ultimately in a long narrow passage, indifferently lighted, when Somerset, treading on a loose stone, felt a twinge of weakness in one knee, and knew in a moment that it was the result of the twist given by his yesterday’s fall. He paused, leaning against the wall.
‘What is it?’ said Paula, with a sudden timidity in her voice.
‘I slipped down yesterday,’ he said. ‘It will be right in a moment.’