People cannot be original either, even in their travels. Imagine that Jones, exhausted with his literary propping-up of Fair Rosamond’s reputation, says secretly to his own soul, “I will eschew my kind, and take holiday where the heart of man never dreamed of taking holiday before, in the smallest county in England.” He thinks he has conceived a new thing, yet Smith is on the station when he gets to King’s Cross, with travelling-bag labelled “Oakham,” also. It is a marvel the pair do not kill each other; but, instead of that, they exchange cigars, and the newspapers, and stop at the same hotel. It is a law of nature, we may conclude, this rotatory cropping-up of ideas, this constant evidence that nothing we do, or say, or think, is in itself perfectly new or original; and, however unpleasant many natural laws may be, still we cannot get rid of them, nor escape from their control. And, indeed—though we always are—why should we even be astonished at these coincidences? When we see one primrose on a bank, we may feel pretty certain there are other primroses not far off. They come in their season like the thoughts of men; they dot the hedgerows, and spring amongst the woods; they show their faces boldly by the roadside, and they hide them shyly amid the grass; they are sold in the market-place, and the children gather them for posies; they bloom; they are sought after; they are taken to grace lordly rooms; they remain unseen; they wither; they pass away; they are forgotten; like the thoughts of the best men, they but serve their purpose and depart, to make way for fresh flowers, and for fresh thinkers; for there is nothing new under the sun. All of which may help to explain the fact, that although Mr. Black’s latest financial undertaking resembled the root of a primrose as little as any two things on the face of the earth could do by possibility, still his scheme bore many flowers of speech in Berrie Down Hollow. On the day when Miss Hope broke ground in Heather’s dressing-room, many other people broke up the same ground, though with different intentions, and in different language. Gilbert told Bessie how Mr. Black had offered him the business of a “large company” (Mr. Harcourt was a young solicitor); at least, said he would try to get it for him, whereupon Bessie remarked she hoped it would turn out a good company, for she thought, during the course of his life, her uncle had often got into very questionable society. Likewise, lying on the drawing-room sofa, Mrs. Ormson discoursed to her sister about business, and supposed she would soon be riding in her carriage now, and grow too proud to find her way to Guildford Street at all!