'The characteristic of women,' Buckland pursued, with some asperity, throwing away the stump of his cigar. 'It comes, I suppose, of their ridiculous education--their minds are never trained to fixity of purpose. They never understand themselves, and scarcely ever make an effort to understand any one else. Their life is a succession of inconsistencies.' 'This generalising is so easy,' said Sidwell, with a laugh, 'and so worthless. I wonder you should be so far behind the times.' 'What light have the times thrown on the subject?' 'There's no longer such a thing as _woman_ in the abstract. We are individuals.' 'Don't imagine it! That may come to pass three or four generations hence, but as yet the best of you can only vary the type in unimportant particulars. By the way, what is Peak's address?' 'Longbrook Street; but I don't know the number. Father can give it you, I think.' 'I shall have to drop him a note. I must get back to town early in the morning.' 'Really? We hoped to have you for a week.' 'Longer next time.' They descended together. Now that Louis no longer abode here (he had decided at length for medicine, and was at work in London), the family as a rule spent very quiet evenings. By ten o'clock Mrs Warricombe and Fanny had retired, and Sidwell was left either to talk with her father, or to pursue the calm meditations which seemed to make her independent of companionship as often as she chose. 'Are they all gone?' Buckland asked, finding a vacant room. 'Father is no doubt in the study.' 'It occurs to me--. Do you feel satisfied with this dead-alive existence?' 'Satisfied? No life could suit me better.' 'You really think of living here indefinitely?' 'As far as I am concerned, I hope nothing may ever disturb us.' 'And to the end of your life you will scent yourself with sweetbrier? Do try a bit of mint for a change.' 'Certainly, if it will please you.' 'Seriously, I think you might all come to town for next winter. You are rusting, all of you. Father was never so dull, and mother doesn't seem to know how to pass the days. It wouldn't be bad for Louis to be living with you instead of in lodgings. Do just think of it. It's ages since you heard a concert, or saw a picture.' Sidwell mused, and her brother watched her askance. 'I don't know whether the others would care for it,' she said, 'but I am not tempted by a winter of fog.' 'Fog? Pooh! Well, there is an occasional fog, just now and then, but it's much exaggerated. Who ever thinks of the weather in England? Fanny might have a time at Bedford College or some such place-she learns nothing here. Think it over. Father would be delighted to get among the societies, and so on.'