John walked out of the room.  During dinner mother and son spoke very little, and he retired early, about ten o’clock, to his room.  He was in high dudgeon, but the white walls, the prie-dieu, the straight, narrow bed were pleasant to see.  His room was the first agreeable impression of the day.  He picked up a drawing from the table, it seemed to him awkward and slovenly.  He sharpened his pencil, cleared his crow-quill pens, got out his tracing-paper, and sat down to execute a better.  But he had not finished his outline sketch before he leaned back in his chair, and as if overcome by the insidious warmth of the fire, lapsed into fire-light attitudes and meditations.

He looked a little backwards into the blaze; he nibbled his pencil point.  Wavering light and wavering shade followed fast over the Roman profile, followed and flowed fitfully—­fitfully as his thoughts.  Now his thought followed out architectural dreams, and now he thought of himself, of his unhappy youth, of how he had been misunderstood, of his solitary life; a bitter, unsatisfactory life, and yet a life not wanting in an ideal—­a glorious ideal.  He thought how his projects had always met with failure, with disapproval, above all failure ... and yet, and yet he felt, he almost knew there was something great and noble in him.  His eyes brightened; he slipped into thinking of schemes for a monastic life; and then he thought of his mother’s hard disposition and how she misunderstood him,—­everyone misunderstood him.  What would the end be?  Would he succeed in creating the monastery he dreamed of so fondly?  To reconstruct the ascetic life of the Middle Ages, that would be something worth doing, that would be a great ideal—­that would make meaning in his life.  If he failed ... what should he do then?  His life as it was, was unbearable ... he must come to terms with life....

That central tower! how could he manage it! and that built-out front.  Was it true, as the architect said, that it would throw all the front rooms into darkness?  Without this front his design would be worthless.  What a difference it made!

Kitty liked it.  She had thought it charming.  How young she was, how glad and how innocent, and how clever, her age being taken into consideration.  She understood all you said.  It would not surprise him if she developed into something:  but she would marry....

But why was he thinking of her?  What concern had she in his life?  A little slip of a girl—­a girl—­a girl more or less pretty, that was all.  And yet it was pleasant to hear her laugh.  That low, sudden laugh—­she was pleasanter company than his mother, she was pleasant to have in the house, she interrupted many an unpleasant scene.  Then he remembered what his mother had said.  She had said that he was disappointed that she was ill, that he had missed her, that ... that it was because she was not there that he had found the day so intolerably wearisome.