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"In London at first," Rosina told him.

"Is London more beautiful than Norchester?"

"It is so difficult to explain," she repeated. "Spiritually, it is. There is music there, wonderful pictures to be seen; there is history, association, people working with big aims and big ideas, the heart of a great city beating in your ears night and day."

Benjamin Stone listened with the air of one who seeks to understand. There was no anger in his face, there was certainly no sympathy.

"Our picture gallery here is well supplied," he said. "We have acquired works—at a ridiculous price, in my opinion—painted by many well-known artists. Marshall's concerts are, I believe, found attractive by the musical element in the town."

Rosina made a little grimace.

"I knew that I could not make you understand, uncle," she sighed. "The pictures we have are just the sort that the great artists sell to the picture galleries of provincial towns, and the concerts—well, the musicians who come down here put their heads together and make an effort to give us of their worst, so that they may be understood. Norchester is typically provincial, uncle. So long as we are here, we are plodding in the mud, almost the slough, and I mean to get out of it."