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ly weary in head and eyes and back and arm； I gave it up for the evening and turned to Cordelia。
She was now fifteen and had grown tall； nearly to her full height； in the last eighteen months。 She had not the promise of Julia's full quattrocento loveliness； there was a touch of Brideshead already in her length of nose and high cheekbone； she was in black； mourning for her mother。
'I'm tired；' I said。
'I bet you are。 Is it finished？'
'Practically。 I must go over it again tomorrow。'
'D'you know it's long past dinner time？ There's no one here to cook anything now。 I only came up today； and didn't realize how far the decay had gone。 You wouldn't like to take me out to dinner； would； you？'
We left by the garden door； into the park； and walked in the twilight to the Ritz Grill。
'You've seen Sebastian？ He won't e home； even now？'
I did not realize till then that she had understood so much。 I said so
'Well； I love him more than anyone；' she said。 'It's sad about Marchers； isn't it？ Do you know they're going to build a block of flats； and that Rex wanted to take I what he called a 〃penthouse〃 at the top。 Isn't it like him？ Poor Julia。 That was too much for her。 He couldn't understand at all； he thought she would like to keep up with her old home。 Things have all e to an end very quickly； haven't they？ Apparently papa has been terribly in debt for a long time。 Selling Marchers has put him straight again and saved I don't know how much a year in rates。 But it seems a shame to pull it down。 Julia says she'd sooner that than to have someone else live there。'
'What's going to happen to you？'
'What； indeed？ There are all kinds of suggestions。 Aunt Fanny Rossmon wants me to live with her。 Then Rex and Julia talk of taking over half Brideshead and living there。 Papa won't e back。 We thought he might； but no。
'They've closed the chapel at Brideshead； Bridey and the Bishop； mummy's Requiem was the last mass said there。 After she was buried the priest came in … I was there alone。 I don't think he saw me … and took out the altar stone and put it in his bag； then he burned the wads of wool with the holy oil on them and threw the ash outside； he emptied the holy…water stoop and blew out the lamp in the sanctuary； and left the tabernacle open； and empty； as though from now on it was always to be Good Friday。 I suppose none of this makes any sense to you； Charles； poor agnostic。 I stayed there till he was gone； and then； suddenly； there wasn't any chapel there any more； just an oddly decorated room。 I can't tell you what it felt like。 You've。never been to Tenebrae； I suppose？'
'Never。'
'Well； if you had you'd know what the Jews felt about their temple。 Quomodo sedet sola civitas。。。it's a beautiful chant。 You ought to go once； just to hear it。'
'Still trying to convert me； Cordelia？'
'Oh； no。 That's all over； too。 D'you know what papa said when he became a Catholic？ Mummy told me once。 He said to her： 〃You have brought back my family to the faith of their ancestors。〃 Pompous； you know。 It takes people different ways。 Anyhow； the family haven't been very constant； have they？ There's him gone and Sebastian gone and Julia gone。 But God won't let them go for long； you know。 I wonder if you remember the story mummy read us the evening Sebastian first got drunk I mean the bad evening。 〃Father Brown〃 said something like 〃I caught him〃 （the thief） 〃with an unseen hook and an invisible line which is long enough to let him wander to the ends of the world and still to bring him back with a twitch upon the thread。〃'
We scarcely mentioned her mother。 All the time we talked； she ate voraciously。 Once she said：
'Did you see Sir Adrian Porson's poem in The Times？ It's funny： he knew her best of anyone … he loved her all his life； you know … and yet it doesn't seem to have anything to do with her at all。
'I got on best with her of any of us； but I don't believe I ever really loved her。 Not as she wanted or deserved。 It's odd I didn't； because I'm full of natural affections。'
'I never really knew your Mother；' I said。
'You didn't like her。 I sometimes think when people wanted to hate God they hated mummy。'
'What do you mean by that； Cordelia？'
'Well； you see； she was saintly but she wasn't a saint。 No one could really hate a saint； could they？ They can't really hate God either。 When they want to hate him and his saints； they have to find something like themselves and pretend it's God and hate that。 I suppose you think that's all bosh。'
'I heard almost the same thing once before … from someone very different。'
'Oh； I'm quite serious。 I've thought about it a lot。 It seems to explain poor mummy。'
Then this odd child tucked into her dinner with renewed relish。 'First time I've ever been taken out to dinner alone at a restaurant；' she said。
Later： 'When Julia heard they were selling Marchers she said： 〃Poor Cordelia。 She won't have her ing…out ball there after all。〃 It's a thing we used to talk about … like my being her bridesmaid。 That didn't e off either。 When Julia had her ball I was allowed down for an hour； to sit in the corner with Aunt Fanny； and she said； 〃In six years' time you'll have all this。〃。。。I hope I've got a vocation。'
'I don't know what that means。'
'It means you can be a nun。 If you haven't a vocation it's no good however much you want to be； and if you have a vocation； you can't get away from it； however much you hate it。 Bridey thinks he has a vocation and hasn't。 I used to think Sebastian had and hated it … but I don't know now。 Everything has changed so much suddenly。'
But I had no patience with this convent chatter。 I had felt the brush take life in my hand that afternoon； I had had my finger in the great； succulent pie of creation。 I was a man of the Renaissance that evening … of Browning's renaissance。 I； who had walked the streets of Rome in Genoa velvet and had seen the stars through Galileo's tube； spurned the friars； with their dusty tomes and their sunken； jealous eyes and their crabbed hairsplitting speech。
'You'll fall in love；' I said。
'Oh； pray not。 I say； do you think I could have another of those scrumptious meringues？'
BOOK THREE
A TWITCH UPON THE THREAD
＇1＇
MY theme is memory； that winged host that soared about me one grey morning of war…time。
These memories； which are my life … for we possess nothing certainly except the past … were always with me。 Like the pigeons of St Mark's； they were everywhere； under my feet； singly； in pairs； in little honey…voiced congregations； nodding； strutting； winking； rolling the tender feathers of their necks； perching sometimes； if I stood still； on my shoulder； until； suddenly； the noon gun boomed and in a moment； with a flutter and sweep of wings； the pavement was bare and the whole sky above dark with a tumult of fowl。 Thus it was that morning of war…time。
For nearly ten dead years after that evening with Cordelia I was borne along a road outwardly full of change and incident； but never during that time； except sometimes in my painting … and that at longer and longer intervals … did I e alive as I had been during the time of my friendship with Sebastian。 I took it to be youth； not life； that I was losing。 My work upheld me； for I had chosen to do what I could do well； did better daily； and liked doing； incidentally it was something which no one else at that time was attempting to do。 I became an architectural painter。
More even than the work of the great architects； I loved buildings that grew silently with the centuries； catching and keeping the best of each generation； while time curbed the artist's pride and the Philistine's vulgarity； and repaired the clumsiness of the dull workman。 In such buildings England abounded； and； in the last decade of their grandeur； Englishmen seemed for the first time to bee conscious of what before was taken for granted； and to salute their achievement at the moment of extinction。 Hence my prosperity； far beyond my merits； my work had nothing to remend it except my growing technical skill； enthusiasm for my subject； and independence of popular notions。
The financial slump of the period； which left many painters without employment； served to enhance my success； which was； indeed； itself a symptom of the decline。 When the water…holes were dry people sought to drink at the mirage。 After my first exhibition I was called to all parts of the country to make portraits of houses that were soon to be deserted or debased； indeed； my arrival seemed often to be only a few paces ahead of the auctioneer's； a presage of doom。
I published three splendid folios … Ryder's Country Seats； Ryder's English Homes； and Ryder's Village and Provincial Architecture； which each sold its thousand copies at five guineas apiece。 I seldom failed to please； for there was no conflict between myself and my patrons； we both wanted the same thing。 But； as the years passed； I began to mourn the loss of something I had known in the drawing…room of Marchmain House and once or twice since； the intensity and singleness and the belief that it was not all done by hand … in a word； the inspiration。
In quest of this fading li