Reaching the brow of the hill he stopped and looked back.

The chapel was still in view, and the shades of night having deepened, the lights shone from the windows yet more brightly than before.

A few steps further would hide them and the edifice, and all that belonged to it from his sight, possibly for ever.
There was something in the thought which led him to linger.

The chapel had neither beauty, quaintness, nor congeniality to recommend it: the dissimilitude between the new utilitarianism of the place and the scenes of venerable Gothic art which had occupied his daylight hours could not well be exceeded.

But Somerset, as has been said, was an instrument of no narrow gamut: he had a key for other touches than the purely aesthetic, even on such an excursion as this.