One day Lady Davenant had been speaking of London conversation. “So brilliant,” said she, “so short-lived, as my friend Lady Emmeline K----once said, ‘London wit is like gas, which lights at a touch, and at a touch can be extinguished;’” and Lady Davenant concluded with a compliment to him who was known to have this “_touch and go_” of good conversation to perfection. Mr. Churchill bowed to the compliment, but afterwards sighed, and it seemed an honest sigh, from the bottom of his heart. Only Lady Davenant and Helen were in the room, and turning to Lady Davenant he said, “If I have it, I have paid dearly for it, more than it is worth, much too dearly, by the sacrifice of higher powers; I might have been a very different person from what I am.” Helen’s attention was instantly fixed; but Lady Davenant suspected he was now only talking for effect. He saw what she thought--it was partly true, but not quite. He felt what he said at the moment; and besides, there is always a sincere pleasure in speaking of one’s self when one can do it without exposing one’s self to ridicule, and with a chance of obtaining real sympathy. “It was my misfortune,” he said, “to be spoiled, even in childhood, by my mother.” As he pronounced the word “mother,” either his own heart or Helen’s eyes made him pause with a look of respectful tenderness. It was cruel of a son to blame the fond indulgence of a mother; but the fact was, she brought him too forward early as a clever child, fed him too much with that sweet dangerous fostering dew of praise. The child--the man--must suffer for it afterwards. “True, very true,” said Lady Davenant; “I quite agree with you.” “I could do nothing without flattery,” continued he, pursuing the line of confession which he saw had fixed Lady Davenant’s attention favourably. “Unluckily, I came too early into possession of a large fortune, and into the London world, and I lapped the stream of prosperity as I ran, and it was sweet with flattery, intoxicating, and I knew it, and yet could not forbear it. Then in a London life every thing is too stimulating--over-exciting. If there are great advantages to men of science and literature in museums and public libraries, the more than _Avicenna_ advantages of having books come at will, and ministering spirits in waiting on all your pursuits--there is too much of every thing except time, and too little of that. The treasures are within our reach, but we cannot clutch; we have, but we cannot hold. We have neither leisure to be good, nor to be great: who can think of living for posterity, when he can scarcely live for the day? and sufficient for the day are never the hours thereof. From want of time, and from the immense quantity that nevertheless must be known, comes the necessity, the unavoidable necessity of being superficial.” “Why should it be unavoidable necessity?” asked Lady Davenant. “Because _should_ waits upon _must_, in London always, if not elsewhere,” said Churchill.