"That?"

"Ay," said Paul. "You mun have a reason."

"You're a queer infant," laughed the artist. "Do you really want to
know?"

"I've asked yo'," said Paul.

"Well, if you're anxious to know, I'm an architect on a holiday, and
I'm sketching any old thing I come across. I don't pretend to be a
painter, my youthful virtuoso, and that's why I go wrong sometimes
on colour. Do you know what an architect is?"

"No," said Paul, eagerly. "What is it?"

He had been baffled by the meaning of the word, which he had seen
all his life, inscribed on a brass plate in the Bludston High
Street: "E. Thomson, Architect & Surveyor." It had seemed to him
odd, cryptically fascinating.

The young man laughed and explained; Paul listened seriously.
Another mystery was solved. He had often wondered how the
bricklayers knew where to lay the bricks. He grasped the idea that
they were but instruments carrying out the conception of the
architect's brain. "I'd like to be an architect," he said.

"Would you?" After a pause the young man continued: "Anyhow, you can
earn a shilling. just sit down there and let me make a sketch of
you."