It was a strange subject
for a youth to take up at that time, or any time since, and in that
colonial country--architecture. Yet 'twas just like Phil Winwood to be
interested in something that all around him neglected or knew nothing
about. What hope an American could have in the pursuit of an art, for
which the very rare demands in his country were supplied from Europe,
and which indeed languished the world over, I could not see.
"Very well, then," said Phil, "'twill be worth while trying to waken
this sleeping art, and to find a place for it in this out-of-the-way
country. I wouldn't presume to attempt new forms, to be sure; but one
might revive some old ones, and maybe try new arrangements of them."
"Then you think you'll really be an architect?" I asked.
"Why, if it's possible. 'Faith, I'm not so young any more that I still
want to be a soldier, or a sailor either. One thing, 'twill take years
of study; I'll have to go to Europe for that."
"To England?"
"First of all."
"What will Mr. Faringfield say to that?"
"He will not mind it so much in my case. I'm not of the Faringfield
blood."
"Egad," said I, "there's some of the Faringfield blood hankers for a
sight of London."
"Whose? Ned's?"
"No. Margaret's."
We were young men now, and she would not let us call her Madge any
more. What I had said was true. She had not grown up without hearing
and reading much of the great world beyond the sea, and wishing she
might have her taste of its pleasures.
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