"I took a great deal of trouble; I wrote ever so many notes, sought introductions, talked with people--such impossible people some of them. In short I knocked at every door, I went into the question exhaustively." And he enumerated the things he had done, reported on some of the knowledge he had gathered. The difficulties were immense, and even with the influence he could command, such as it was, there was very little to be achieved in face of them. Still he had gained ground: two or three approachable fellows, men with inferior theatres, had listened to him better than the others, and there was one in particular whom he had a hope he really might have interested. From him he had extracted benevolent assurances: this person would see Miriam, would listen to her, would do for her what he could. The trouble was that no one would lift a finger for a girl unless she were known, and yet that she never could become known till innumerable fingers had been lifted. You couldn't go into the water unless you could swim, and you couldn't swim until you had been in the water. "But new performers appear; they get theatres, they get audiences, they get notices in the newspapers," Mrs. Rooth objected. "I know of these things only what Miriam tells me. It's no knowledge that I was born to." "It's perfectly true. It's all done with money." "And how do they come by money?" Mrs. Rooth candidly asked. "When they're women people give it to them." "Well, what people now?" "People who believe in them." "As you believe in Miriam?" Peter had a pause. "No, rather differently. A poor man doesn't believe in anything the same way that a rich man does." "Ah don't call yourself poor!" groaned Mrs. Rooth. "What good would it do me to be rich?" "Why you could take a theatre. You could do it all yourself." "And what good would that do me?" "Ah don't you delight in her genius?" demanded Mrs. Rooth. "I delight in her mother. You think me more disinterested than I am," Sherringham added with a certain soreness of irritation. "I know why you didn't write!" Mrs. Rooth declared archly. "You must go to London," Peter said without heeding this remark. "Ah if we could only get there it would be a relief. I should draw a long breath. There at least I know where I am and what people are. But here one lives on hollow ground!" "The sooner you get away the better," our young man went on. "I know why you say that." "It's just what I'm explaining." "I couldn't have held out if I hadn't been so sure of Miriam," said Mrs. Rooth. "Well, you needn't hold out any longer." "Don't _you_ trust her?" asked Sherringham's hostess. "Trust her?" "You don't trust yourself. That's why you were silent, why we might have thought you were dead, why we might have perished ourselves." "I don't think I understand you; I don't know what you're talking about," Peter returned. "But it doesn't matter." "Doesn't it? Let yourself go. Why should you struggle?" the old woman agreeably inquired.