At the inns where they stopped, for meals and
overnight, they were subjected to a protracted gazing on the part of
all who saw them--an inspection seemingly resentful or disapproving,
but indeed only curious. It irritated Madge, who asked Ned what the
cause might be.
"Tut! Don't mind it," said he. "'Tis the way of the English,
everywhere but in London. They stare at strangers as if they was in
danger of being insulted by 'em, or having their pockets picked by
'em, or at best as if they was looking at some remarkable animal; but
they mean no harm by it."
"How can they see we are strangers?" she queried. "We're dressed like
them."
"God knows! Perhaps because we look more cheerful than they do, and
have a brisker way, and laugh easier," conjectured Ned. "But you'll
feel more at home in London."
By the time she arrived in London, having slept in a different bed
each night after landing, and eaten at so many different inns each
day, Madge felt as if she had been a long while in England.[8] She
came to the town thus as to a haven of rest; and though she was still
gazed at for her beauty, it was not in that ceaseless and mistrustful
way in which she had been scrutinised from top to toe in the country;
moreover, the names of many of the streets and localities were
familiar to her, and in her thoughts she had already visited them: for
these reasons, which were more than Ned had taken account of, she did
indeed feel somewhat at home in London, as he had predicted.
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