"Father," I said, suddenly, "a man might be happy here."
He sighed. "It would not be impossible," he assented.
I thought of London at night, with its endless whirl of excitement and hurry; its flaming gas-lights, its heated theatres, its hurrying, eager crowds, and its hideous vice, and I drew a deep, satisfied breath.
"One is happiest out of the world, I think, after all. How could any man be miserable in a place like this?"
My father smiled sadly.
"A certain amount of philosophy is necessary to appreciate solitude," he said. "You are too young to have imbibed it. You would be longing to be back in the world again before long."
I shook my head.
"Not I. There is nothing in England to compare with this. As for London, the little time I spent there seems like a bad dream. To live in a great city seems to me the greatest mistake a man can make. All the town people I met were artificial in their manners, and in their nature too, I believe. The struggle for existence seems to stunt them, and to check their development."
"Yet contact with one another sharpens their wits and energy," my father remarked.
"I doubt whether it improves them morally," I answered. "But perhaps I am prejudiced. I hate towns, and I love the country."