bud; the young leaves pined; the sparrows repented of their early marriages, like men and women; the colours of the rainbow were discernible, not in floral spring, but in the faces of the people whom it nibbled and pinched. And ever the wind sawed, and the sawdust whirled.
When the spring evenings are too long and light to shut out, and such weather is rife, the city which Mr. Podsnap so explanatorily called London, Londres, London, is at its worst. Such a black shrill city, combining the qualities of a smoky house and a scolding wife; such a gritty city; such a hopeless city, with no rent in the leaden canopy of its sky; such a beleaguered city, invested by the great Marsh Forces of Essex and Kent. So the two old schoolfellows felt it to be, as, their dinner done, they turned towards the fire to smoke. Young Blight was gone, the coffeehouse waiter was gone, the plates and dishes were gone, the wine was going—but not in the same direction.
“The wind sounds up here,” quoth Eugene, stirring the fire, “as if we were keeping a lighthouse. I wish we were.”
“Don’t you think it would bore us?” Lightwood asked.
“Not more than any other place. And there would be no Circuit to go. But that’s a selfish consideration, personal to me.”
“And no clients to come,” added Lightwood. “Not that that’s a selfish consideration at all personal to me .”
“If we were on an isolated rock in a stormy sea,” said Eugene, smoking with his eyes on the fire, “Lady Tippins couldn’t put off to visit us, or, better still, might put off and get swamped. People couldn’t ask one to wedding breakfasts. There would be no precedents to hammer at, except the plain-sailing precedent of keeping the light up. It would be exciting to look out for wrecks.”