’Let me ask you a plain question.  You have twice been kind enough to introduce me to your home as a friend of yours.  Am I guilty of presumption in hoping that your parents will continue to regard me as an acquaintance?  I trust there’s no need to assure you that I know the meaning of discretion.’

An appeal to Buckland’s generosity seldom failed.  Yes, it was true that he had more than once encouraged the hope now frankly expressed.  Indulging a correspondent frankness, he might explain that Peak’s position was so distasteful to him that it disturbed the future with many kinds of uncertainty.  But this would be churlish.  He must treat his guest as a gentleman, so long as nothing compelled him to take the less agreeable view.

’My dear Peak, let us have none of these formalities.  My parents have distinctly invited you to go and see them whenever you are in the neighbourhood.  I am quite sure they will help to make your stay in Exeter a pleasant one.’

Therewith closed the hazardous dialogue.  Warricombe turned at once to a safe topic—­that of contemporary fiction, and they chatted pleasantly enough for the rest of the evening.

Not many days after this, Godwin received by post an envelope which contained certain proof sheets, and therewith a note in which the editor of The Critical Review signified his acceptance of a paper entitled ‘The New Sophistry’.  The communication was originally addressed to Earwaker, who had scribbled at the foot, ’Correct, if you are alive, and send back to Dolby.’

The next morning he did not set out as usual for Rotherhithe.  Through the night he had not closed his eyes; he was in a state of nervousness which bordered on fever.  A dozen times he had read over the proofs, with throbbing pulse, with exultant self-admiration:  but the printer’s errors which had caught his eye, and a few faults of phrase, were still uncorrected.  What a capital piece of writing it was!  What a flagellation of M’Naughten and all his tribe!  If this did not rouse echoes in the literary world—­

Through the long day he sat in languor or paced his room like one made restless by pain.  Only when the gloom of nightfall obliged him to light his lamp did he at length sit down to the table and carefully revise the proofs, pen in hand.  When he had made up the packet for post, he wrote to Earwaker.

’I had forgotten all about this thing.  Proofs have gone to Dolby.  I have not signed; probably he would object to my doing so.  As it is, the paper can be ascribed to anyone, and attention thus excited.  We shall see paragraphs attributing it to men of mark—­perhaps scandal will fix it on a bishop.  In any case, don’t let out the secret.  I beg this seriously, and for a solid reason.  Not a word to anyone, however intimate.  If Dolby betrays your name, grin and bear it.  I depend upon your friendship.’

CHAPTER II