‘Why, I’m disposed to agree with Peak,’ answered the journalist.  ’If I could take that line, I should be a happier man than conscientiousness will ever make me.’

Malkin swelled with indignation.

’You don’t mean it!  You are turning a grave argument into jest!—­ Where’s my hat?  Where the devil is my hat?  Send for me again when you are disposed to talk seriously.’

He strode towards the door, but Earwaker arrested him with a shout.

‘You’re leaving your pipe!’

‘So I am.  Where is it?—­Did I tell you where I bought this pipe?’

‘No.  What’s the wood?’

On the instant Malkin fell into a cheerful vein of reminiscence.  In five minutes he was giving a rapturous description of tropical scenes, laughing joyously as he addressed now one now the other of his companions.

‘I hear you have a mind to see those countries, Mr. Peak,’ he said at length.  ’If you care for a travelling companion—­rather short-tempered, but you’ll pardon that—­pray give me the preference.  I should enjoy above all things to travel with a man of science.’

‘It’s very doubtful whether I shall ever get so far,’ Godwin replied, musingly.

And, as he spoke, he rose to take leave.  Earwaker’s protest that it was not yet ten o’clock did not influence him.

‘I want to reflect on the meaning of happiness,’ he said, extending his hand to Malkin; and, in spite of the smile, his face had a sombre cast.

The two who were left of course discussed him.

‘You won’t care much for Peak,’ said Earwaker.  ’He and I suit each other, because there’s a good deal of indifferentism in both of us.  Moral earnestness always goes against the grain with him; I’ve noticed it frequently.’

’I’m sorry I spoke so dogmatically.  It wasn’t altogether good manners.  Suppose I write him a short letter, just expressing my regret for having been led away’—­

’ Needless, needless,’ laughed the journalist.  ’He thinks all the better of you for your zeal.  But happiness is a sore point with him; few men, I should think, have known less of it.  I can’t imagine any circumstances which would make him thoroughly at peace with himself and the world.’

’Poor fellow!  You can see something of that in his face.  Why doesn’t he get married?’

‘A remarkable suggestion!—­By the way, why don’t you?’.

’My dear boy, there’s nothing I wish more, but it’s a business of such fearful precariousness.  I’m one of those men whom marriage will either make or ruin.  You know my characteristics; the slightest check upon my independence, and all’s up with me.  The woman I marry must be perfectly reasonable, perfectly good-tempered; she must have excellent education, and every delicacy of breeding.  Where am I to find this paragon?’

‘Society is open to you.’

’True, but I am not open to society.  I don’t take kindly to the people of my own class.  No, I tell you what—­my only chance of getting a suitable wife is to train some very young girl for the purpose.  Don’t misunderstand me, for heaven’s sake!  I mean that I must make a friendship with some schoolgirl in whose education I can have a voice, whose relatives will permit me to influence her mind and develop her character.  What do you think of this idea?’