"Why, my dear, it is not always easy to say what my lady likes. You know great folks are not forward in expressing their feelings, and my lady never talks of herself. Of course, if Sir Edward is to live in London, my lady would wish to be with him, like a dutiful wife as she is. And so much the better for him, since, between ourselves, my dear, though I would not say so to every one, she has more sense in her glove than ever dwelt under his hat. I dare say my lady may be pleased at the thought of seeing some of her old friends again, but, upon the whole, I am of opinion that she would rather stay here than go to town. She never was fond of company, even as a girl. She would often beg to be left at home when the rest went out, and after she became a widow, I do believe that with her own good will she would never have left her own room, save to go to church or visit some poor body. "Sir Edward went to London after his marriage, and was much about the king for some years. So my lady had to go to court with the other great ladies, but never was a bird more glad to escape from the cage than she was when we came down to the Hall. She recovered her spirits wonderfully, so that Sir Edward himself noticed the change, and he was greatly pleased to see her take such an interest in the gardens and in the schools and almshouses which his grandmother set up. It seemed as though she grew ten years younger. No, I cannot think my lady would ever go to London of her own accord." "And you, Mrs. Alwright, how do you like it?" "My dear, I hate and detest London and everything belonging to it!" said Mrs. Alwright, with so much energy that Winifred started and broke her thread. "Nasty, dirty place that it is, always knee-deep in dirt, in mud or dust, everything covered with soot and black, so that one can never be sure of a decent cap and kerchief for two minutes together, and no getting them washed as they should be, either! All sorts of wickedness and folly going on, night and day. Never sure when one hires a new maid that she is not a what-shall-call-um, who will rob the house and run away the first chance you give her, and pretty certain that she will be a lazy, dirty baggage, not worth her salt! The streets fall of all sorts of disorder so that no one is safe after dark. "My lady was once stopped in her coach, coming home from Whitehall, and would have been robbed and murdered too, for aught I know, only for a party of soldiers who came up just in time. Poor starving creatures begging at the corners of the streets—why, if you will believe me, my dear, a poor sailor actually crept into our back-yard for shelter one cold night, and was found dying in the morning. My lady and I tried all we could to revive him, but he was too far gone. He said he had ate nothing for a week, and I could easily believe it by his looks. Brazen, painted baggages riding in their coaches in the park and jostling honest women!" Mrs. Alwright stopped for sheer want of breath.