‘I am not sure—certainly not by myself. I was in London once for six months as a governess in a very pleasant family, where I saw much society; but I was glad to return to Fenmarket.’ ‘To the scenery round Fenmarket,’ interrupted Madge; ‘it is so romantic, so mountainous, so interesting in every way.’ ‘I was thinking of people, strange as it may appear. In London nobody really cares for anybody, at least, not in the sense in which I should use the words. Men and women in London stand for certain talents, and are valued often very highly for them, but they are valued merely as representing these talents. Now, if I had a talent, I should not be satisfied with admiration or respect because of it. No matter what admiration, or respect, or even enthusiasm I might evoke, even if I were told that my services had been immense and that life had been changed through my instrumentality, I should feel the lack of quiet, personal affection, and that, I believe, is not common in London. If I were famous, I would sacrifice all the adoration of the world for the love of a brother—if I had one—or a sister, who perhaps had never heard what it was which had made me renowned.’ ‘Certainly,’ said Madge, laughing, ‘for the love of _such_ a sister. But, Mr Palmer, I like London. I like the people, just the people, although I do not know a soul, and not a soul cares a brass farthing about me. I am not half so stupid in London as in the country. I never have a thought of my own down here. How should I? But in London there is plenty of talk about all kinds of things, and I find I too have something in me. It is true, as Clara says, that nobody is anything particular to anybody, but that to me is rather pleasant. I do not want too much of profound and eternal attachments. They are rather a burden. They involve profound and eternal attachment on my part; and I have always to be at my best; such watchfulness and such jealousy! I prefer a dressing-gown and slippers and bonds which are not so tight.’ ‘Madge, Madge, I wish you would sometimes save me the trouble of laboriously striving to discover what you really mean.’ Mrs Hopgood bethought herself that her daughters were talking too much to one another, as they often did, even when guests were present, and she therefore interrupted them. ‘Mr Palmer, you see both town and country—which do you prefer?’ ‘Oh! I hardly know; the country in summer-time, perhaps, and town in the winter.’ This was a safe answer, and one which was not very original; that is to say, it expressed no very distinct belief; but there was one valid reason why he liked being in London in the winter. ‘Your father, I remember, loves music. I suppose you inherit his taste, and it is impossible to hear good music in the country.’ ‘I am very fond of music. Have you heard “St Paul?” I was at Birmingham when it was first performed in this country. Oh! it _is_ lovely,’ and he began humming ‘_Be thou faithful unto death_.’