’Yes, he is.  Does he impress you as the kind of man likely to make a good clergyman?’

‘I don’t see any reason why he should not.’

Her brother mused, with wrinkles of dissatisfaction on his brow.

‘Father gets to like him, you say?’

‘Yes, I think father likes him.’

‘Well, I suppose it’s all right.’

‘All right?’

’It’s the most astounding thing that ever came under my observation,’ exclaimed Buckland, walking away and then returning.

‘That Mr. Peak should be studying for the Church?’

‘Yes.’

‘But do reflect more modestly!’ urged Sidwell, with something that was not quite archness, though as near it as her habits of tone and feature would allow.  ’Why should you refuse to admit an error in your own way of looking at things?  Wouldn’t it be better to take this as a proof that intellect isn’t necessarily at war with Christianity?’

‘I never stated it so broadly as that,’ returned her brother, with impatience.  ’But I should certainly have maintained that Peak’s intellect was necessarily in that position.’

‘And you see how wrong you would have been,’ remarked the girl, softly.

‘Well—­I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know?’

‘I mean that I can’t acknowledge what I can’t understand.’

’Then do try to understand, Buckland!—­Have you ever put aside your prejudice for a moment to inquire what our religion really means?  Not once, I think—­at all events, not since you reached years of discretion.’

’Allow me to inform you that I studied the question thoroughly at Cambridge.’

‘Yes, yes; but that was in your boyhood.’

‘And when does manhood begin?’

‘At different times in different persons.  In your case it was late.’

Buckland laughed.  He was considering a rejoinder, when they were interrupted by the appearance of Fanny, who asked at once: 

‘Shall you go to see Mr. Peak this evening, Buckland?’

‘I’m in no hurry,’ was the abrupt reply.

The girl hesitated.

’Let us all have a drive together—­with Mr. Peak, I mean—­like when you were here last.’

‘We’ll see about it.’

Buckland went slowly from the room.

Late the same evening he sat with his father in the study.  Mr Warricombe knew not the solace of tobacco, and his son, though never quite at ease without pipe or cigar, denied himself in this room, with the result that he shifted frequently upon his chair and fell into many awkward postures.

‘And how does Peak impress you?’ he inquired, when the subject he most wished to converse upon had been postponed to many others.  It was clear that Martin would not himself broach it.

‘Not disagreeably,’ was the reply, with a look of frankness, perhaps over-emphasised.

’What is he doing?  I have only heard from him once since he came down, and he had very little to say about himself.’