"Simply because it's bigger—so much bigger. That's the principal difference, and you'll never get over it. You must appreciate size. An elephant is a noble animal, but it wouldn't be if it was only as big as a fly. London's an elephant, and forget it not."
"It's frightfully ugly, most of it, anyhow, and especially on Sunday morning," George persisted.
"Is it? I wonder whether it is, now. The architecture's ugly. But what's architecture? Architecture isn't everything. If you can go up and down London and see nothing but architecture, you'll never be an A1 architect." He spoke in a low, kindly, and reasonable tone. "I like London on Sunday mornings. In fact it's marvellous. You say it's untidy and all that ... slatternly, and so on. Well, so it ought to be when it gets up late. Jolly bad sign if it
wasn't. And that's part of it! Why, dash it, look at a bedroom when you trail about, getting up! Look how you leave it! The existence of a big city while it's waking up—lethargy business—a sort of shamelessness—it's like a great animal! I think it's marvellous, and I always have thought so."
George would not openly agree, but his mind was illuminated with a new light, and in his mind he agreed, very admiringly.
The train stopped; people got out; and the two were alone in the compartment.
"I thought all was over between you and Adela," said Mr. Enwright, confidentially and quizzically.
George blushed a little. "Oh no!"
"I don't know what I'm going to her lunch for, I'm sure. I suppose I have to go."
"I have, too," said George.