He was sitting lonely in his chambers far away, wondering why she did not write, and yet hoping to hear--wondering if it had all been but a short-lived strain of tenderness.

He knew as well as if it had been stated in words that her serious acceptance of him as a suitor would be her acceptance of him as an architect--that her schemes in love would be expressed in terms of art; and conversely that her refusal of him as a lover would be neatly effected by her choosing Havill's plans for the castle, and returning his own with thanks.

The position was so clear: he was so well walled in by circumstances that he was absolutely helpless.
To wait for the line that would not come--the letter saying that, as she had desired, his was the design that pleased her--was still the only thing to do.

The (to Somerset) surprising accident that the committee of architects should have pronounced the designs absolutely equal in point of merit, and thus have caused the final choice to revert after all to Paula, had been a joyous thing to him when he first heard of it, full of confidence in her favour.

But the fact of her having again become the arbitrator, though it had made acceptance of his plans all the more probable, made refusal of them, should it happen, all the more crushing.
He could have conceived himself favoured by Paula as her lover, even had the committee decided in favour of Havill as her architect.