The first time he had said:
"Why, either because they don't know there's anything better, or else
because they're sure there's something better. Either is a good reason
for going on with awful things."
At last they were in the tender, in a drizzling, greyish rain, ploughing
through the coffee-coloured water of the Thames towards the _Oriana_,
which seemed surprisingly small. She had several surprises during the
journey from Fenchurch Street. To begin with, someone trod on her foot
and did not apologize; several people elbowed her out of their way in
their rush to get to their luggage; no one smiled at her or spoke to
her; no one seemed to realize that she was Marcella Lashcairn, or, if
they realized it, it made no impression on them.
"Don't people here seem bad tempered?" said she to the doctor. "They
don't seem to care about each other in the least."
"There are so many of them, Marcella--at home, you see, there are so few
that they are frightfully interesting and friendly and critical of each
other. Among all these people nobody matters very much--"
"They matter to me. I want to be friends with them, take them under my
wing," she said, looking round at them, most of them people who would
not be very likely to be put under anyone's wing at all. "Don't you feel
like that?"
"I don't.
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