"Nay," he said, "is a Workshop the place for music? Let us rather search for it in the Realms of Art."
In fact it was in Mr. Humphrey's Studio, whither they repaired. The girl sat down, and as she touched the keys her eyes lit up and her whole look changed. Joseph was the only one of the three who really cared for music. He stood by the fire and said nothing. The brethren on either side of the performer displayed wonders of enthusiastic admiration, each in his own way—the Poet sad and reflective, as if music softened his soul; the Artist with an effervescing gaiety delightful to behold. Joseph was thinking. "Can we"—had his thoughts taken form of speech—"can we reconstruct from the girl's own account the old man's scheme anew, provided the chapter on the Coping-stone be never found? Problem given. A girl brought up in seclusion, without intercourse with any of her sex except illiterate servants, yet bred to be a lady: not allowed even to learn reading, but taught orally, so as to hold her own in talk: required, to discover what the old man meant by it, and what was wanted to finish the structure. Could it be reading and writing? Could Abraham Dyson have intended to finish where all other people begin?"
This solution mightily commended itself to Joseph, and he went to bed in great good spirits at his own cleverness.
In the dead of night he awoke in fear and trembling.
"They will go into Chancery," he thought. "What if the Court refuses to take my view?"
At three in the morning the brethren, long left alone with their pipes, rose to go to bed.
Brandy-and-soda sometimes makes men truthful after the third tumbler, and beguiles them with illusory hopes after the fourth. The twins were at the end of their fourth.
"Cornelius," said the Artist, "she has £50,000."
"She has, brother Humphrey."
"It is a pity, Cornelius, that we, who have only £200 a year each, are already fifty years of age."