"Burbage," he answered, pointing the way to it.

And when I came to it, and walked slowly and thoughtfully the entire
length of its one long street or road, my sister said to me:

"Yet another old ancient village!" and then, with a slight tremor in
her voice, "And you are going to stay in it!"

"Yes," I replied, in a tone of studied indifference: but as to whether
it was ancient or not I could not say;--I had never heard its name
before, and knew nothing about it: doubtless it was characteristic--
"That weary word," she murmured.

--But it was neither strikingly picturesque, nor quaint, nor did I wish
it were either one or the other, nor anything else attractive or
remarkable, since I sought only for a quiet spot where my brain might
think the thoughts and my hand do the work that occupied me. A village
remote, rustic, commonplace, that would make no impression on my
preoccupied mind and leave no lasting image, nor anything but a faint
and fading memory.

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom--
And conquered her scruples and gloom.

And fortune favoured her, all things conspiring to keep me content to
walk in that path which I had so readily, so lightly, promised to keep:
for the work to be done was bread and cheese to me, and in a sense to
her, and had to be done, and there was nothing to distract attention.