towards the close of this nineteenth century.
A being of marvellous delicacy, of purest instincts, of unsurpassable sweetness.
Who could not detail her limitations, obvious and, in certain moods, irritating
enough? These were nothing to the point, unless one would roam the world a
hungry idealist; and Godwin was weary of the famined pilgrimage.
    The murmur of amiable voices softened him to the reception of all that was
good in his present surroundings, and justified in the light of sentiment his
own dishonour. This English home, was it not surely the best result of
civilisation in an age devoted to material progress? Here was peace, here was
scope for the kindliest emotions. Upon him - the born rebel, the scorner of
average mankind, the consummate egoist - this atmosphere exercised an influence
more tranquillising, more beneficent, than even the mood of disinterested study.
In the world to which sincerity would condemn him, only the worst elements of
his character found nourishment and range; here he was humanised, made receptive
of all gentle sympathies. Heroism might point him to an unending struggle with
adverse conditions, but how was heroism possible without faith? Absolute faith
he had none; he was essentially a negativist, guided by the mere relations of
phenomena. Nothing easier than to contemn the mode of life represented by this
wealthy middle class; but compare it with other existences conceivable by a
thinking man, and it was emphatically good. It aimed at placidity, at
benevolence, at supreme cleanliness, - things which more than compensated for
the absence of higher spirituality. We can be but what we are; these people
accepted themselves, and in so doing became estimable mortals. No imbecile
pretensions exposed them to the rebuke of a social satirist; no vulgarity
tainted their familiar intercourse. Their allegiance to a worn-out creed was
felt as an added grace; thus only could their souls aspire, and the imperfect
poetry of their natures be developed.
    He took an opportunity of seating himself by Mrs. Warricombe, with whom as
yet he had held no continuous dialogue.
    »Has there been anything of interest at the London theatres lately?« she
asked.
    »I know so little of them,« Godwin replied, truthfully. »It must be several
years since I saw a play.«
    »Then in that respect you have hardly become a Londoner.«
    »Nor in any other, I believe,« said Peak, with a smile. »I have lived there
ten years, but am far from regarding London as my home. I hope a few months more
will release me from it altogether.«