The discreet submissiveness towards the members of her family who were of the superior sex, which had become a habit of her life, made the old lady at first disinclined to act on Deborah’s suggestion. But, by working upon her maternal fears, the girl at last induced Mrs. Pennant to write a note to Rees, at the address in St. Martin’s-lane from which he always dated his letters, informing him that she was anxious about his health, and that she would call and see him within a few hours of the arrival of her note. The two ladies left Carstow by the 4.12 train one raw October morning, before it was light. Hervey got up to see them off, but was just too late; they caught sight of him, panting and blinking on the platform, in the dull flicker of the gas-lamps, just as their train steamed out of the station. They had a dreadful, slow, stopping journey, and reached Paddington at ten minutes past ten, benumbed with cold, sleepy, and depressed. It was Deborah’s first visit to London, and the sensations she experienced as they drove in a shaky four-wheeled cab across the town between Praed street and Trafalgar-square were mingled bewilderment and disappointment. For a film of brownish fog enveloped the houses and obscured the sun, gave a wet, greasy look to the pavements, and to the atmosphere a heaviness which seemed suffocating to the country girl. “Oh, mamma, is this really London?” she asked, as, with her teeth chattering, she looked out of the window when they came to Oxford Circus. “Yes, child; of course you know it is. This is where two of the principal streets cross each other,” answered Mrs. Pennant, rather pettishly, for she was tired with the early and unaccustomed journey. “What a pity we have come up on such a bad day! It makes everything look so black and gloomy.” “If we had come up any other day it would have been the same. London is always foggy at this time of year.” “Always like this?” cried Deborah, in amazement. “Why, how can people live in it?” “They not only live in it, they like it.” “Well, then, now I can understand all one reads about the corrupting influences of a great city. For if people can grow to like this atmosphere better than the pure air, it is not astonishing that they can learn to like evil ways better than good ones.” Mrs. Pennant did not answer; she was too cross. They drove on in silence, Deborah filled with ever-increasing amazement and disgust. When at length the cab drew up at an old-fashioned and dingy house in St. Martin’s-lane, on the right hand side as you go down towards the church, she, however, could not suppress a low cry of horror. “Oh, mamma,” she cried, “surely poor Rees doesn’t live here?” “Don’t be silly, Deborah, crying out like some gawky country cousin. Of course, London is not like Carstow.”