In a sort of court of honour a group of muscular, hairy males, silhouetted against an illuminated latticework of scaffolding, were chipping and paring at huge blocks of stone.

It was a subject for a Rembrandt.
A fat untidy man meditatively approached the doorway.

He had a roll of tracing papers in his hand, and the end of a long, thick pencil in his mouth.

He was the man who interpreted the dreams of the architect to the dreamy British artisan.

Experience of life had made him somewhat brusque.
"Look here," he said to Priam; "what the devil do you want ?" "What the devil do I want ?" repeated Priam, who had not yet altogether fallen away from his mood of universal defiance.