George loved him, and was bound to humour him; and in order to respond sympathetically to Enwright’s pessimism he attempted to describe his sensations concerning the London Sunday, and in particular the Sunday morning aspect of Earl’s Court streets.  He animadverted with virulence, and brought forward his new startling discovery that London was in truth as provincial as the provinces.

“Well, I don’t think it is,” said Enwright, instantly becoming a judicial truth-seeker.

“Why don’t you?”

“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.

“Well, she won’t do you any good, you know.  I was glad when you left there.”

George looked worldly.  “Rum sort, isn’t she?”

I’ll tell you what she is, now.  You remember Aida at the Paris Opera.  The procession in the second act where you lost your head and said it was the finest music ever written.  And those girls in white, waving palms in front of the hero—­What’s-his-name.  There are some women who are born to do that and nothing else.  Thin lips.  Fixed idiotic smile.  They don’t think a bit about what they’re doing.  They’re thinking about themselves all the time.  They simply don’t care a damn about the hero, or about the audience, or anything, and they scarcely pretend to.  Arrogance isn’t the word.  It’s something more terrific—­it’s stupendous!  Mrs. John’s like that.  I thought of it as I was coming along here.”