“Yes, it is; and the bustle of the streets makes one more appreciative of the quiet of the Museum. What are we going to look at when we get there?”
“You must decide that,” I replied. “You know the collection much better than I do.”
“Well, now,” she mused, “I wonder what you would like to see; or, in other words, what I should like you to see. The old English pottery is rather fascinating, especially the Fulham ware. I rather think I shall take you to see that.”
She reflected a while, and then, just as we reached the gate of Staple Inn, she stopped and looked thoughtfully down the Gray’s Inn Road.
“You have taken a great interest in our ‘case’ as Doctor Thorndyke calls it. Would you like to see the churchyard where Uncle John wished to be buried? It is a little out of our way, but we are not in a hurry, are we?”
I, certainly, was not. Any deviation that might prolong our walk was welcome, and as to the place—why, all places were alike to me if only she were by my side. Besides, the churchyard was really of some interest, since it was undoubtedly the “exciting cause” of the obnoxious paragraph two of the will. I accordingly expressed a desire to make its acquaintance, and we crossed to the entrance to Gray’s Inn Road.
“Do you ever try,” she asked, as we turned down the dingy thoroughfare, “to picture familiar places as they looked a couple of hundred years ago?”
“Yes,” I answered, “and very difficult I find it. One has to manufacture the materials for reconstruction, and then the present aspect of the place will keep obtruding itself. But some places are easier to reconstitute than others.”
“That is what I find,” said she. “Now Holborn, for example, is quite easy to reconstruct, though I daresay the imaginary form isn’t a bit like the original. But there are fragments left, like Staple Inn and the front of Gray’s Inn; and then one has seen prints of the old Middle Row and some of the taverns, so that one has some material with which to help out one’s imagination. But this road we are walking in always baffles me. It looks so old and yet is, for the most part, so new that I find it impossible to make a satisfactory picture of its appearance, say, when Sir Roger de Coverley might have strolled in Gray’s Inn Walks, or farther back, when Francis Bacon had chambers in the Inn.”
“I imagine,” said I, “that part of the difficulty is in the mixed character of the neighborhood. Here on the one side, is old Gray’s Inn, not much changed since Bacon’s time—his chambers are still to be seen, I think, over the gateway; and there, on the Clerkenwell side, is a dense and rather squalid neighborhood which has grown up over a region partly rural and wholly fugitive in character. Places like Bagnigge Wells and Hockley in the Hole would not have had many buildings that were likely to survive; and in the absence of surviving specimens the imagination hasn’t much to work from.”
“I daresay you are right,” said she. “Certainly, the purlieus of old Clerkenwell present a very confused picture to me; whereas, in the case of an old street like, say, Great Ormond Street, one has only to sweep away the modern buildings and replace them with glorious old houses like the few that remain, dig up the roadway and pavements and lay down cobblestones, plant a few wooden posts, hang up one or two oil-lamps, and the transformation is complete. And a very delightful transformation it is.”
“Very delightful; which, by the way, is a melancholy thought. For we ought to be doing better work than our forefathers; whereas what we actually do is to pull down the old buildings, clap the doorways, porticoes, paneling, and mantels in our museums, and then run up something inexpensive and useful and deadly uninteresting in their place.”
My companion looked at me and laughed softly. “For a naturally cheerful, and even gay young man,” said she, “you are most amazingly pessimistic. The mantle of Jeremiah—if he ever wore one—seems to have fallen on you, but without in the least impairing your good spirits excepting in regard to matters architectural.”
“I have much to be thankful for,” said I. “Am I not taken to the Museum by a fair lady? And does she not stay me with mummy cases and comfort me with crockery?”
“Pottery,” she corrected; and then as we met a party of grave-looking women emerging from a side-street, she said: “I suppose those are lady medical students.”
“Yes, on their way to the Royal Free Hospital. Note the gravity of their demeanor and contrast it with the levity of the male student.”
“I was doing so,” she answered, “and wondering why professional women are usually so much more serious than men.”
“Perhaps,” I suggested, “it is a matter of selection. A peculiar type of woman is attracted to the professions, whereas every man has to earn his living as a matter of course.”
“Yes, I daresay that is the explanation. This is our turning.”
We passed into Heathcote Street, at the end of which was an open gate giving entrance to one of those disused and metamorphosed burial-grounds that are to be met with in the older districts of London; in which the dispossessed dead are jostled into corners to make room for the living. Many of the headstones were still standing, and others, displaced to make room for asphalted walks and seats, were ranged around by the walls exhibiting inscriptions made meaningless by their removal. It was a pleasant enough place on this summer afternoon, contrasted with the dingy streets whence we had come, though its grass was faded and yellow and the twitter of the birds in the trees mingled with the hideous Board-school drawls of the children who played around the seats and the few remaining tombs.
“So this is
