"But, Mr. Prentice," and Mrs. Marsden smiled; "if a small camp does a little good, why shouldn't a large camp do a lot of good?"
It sounded quite simple, and yet only she would have said it. Mr. Prentice laughed. It reminded him of the old way she had of going straight to the point, and flooring you by a question that seemed childishly naïve until all at once you found you could not answer it.
Mrs. Prentice continued to lament the many degradations that Mallingbridge had already undergone.
"The Theatre Royal turned into a music hall! The Royal! That is the last blow. Three music halls in the place, and not one theatre where you can go and see a real play.... I used to love the Royal. It seemed a part of Mallingbridge."
"My dear Mrs. Prentice," said the guest, calmly and philosophically, "the town that you and I loved has gone. It was inevitable—one can't put back the clock. Time won't stand still for us."
"No, but they're making the new town so ugly, so vulgar. Whenever they pull down one of the dear old houses, they do build such gimcrack monstrosities."
"I fancy," said Mrs. Marsden, "that the distance from London decided our destiny. It was just far enough off to reproduce and copy the metropolis. Nowadays, the little places that remain unchanged are all close to the suburban boundary."
When she talked in this style, Prentice thought how effectually she gave the lie to people who said of her, that she had failed because she lacked the faculty of appreciating altered conditions.
"Did you happen," she asked him, "to read the report of the general meeting of the railway company?"
"No—I don't think I did."