Sidwell smiled, and said quietly: 

‘I thought it likely he would.’

At Budleigh Salterton, a nook on the coast some fifteen miles away, Sylvia Moorhouse was now dwelling.  Her mother, a widow of substantial means, had recently established herself there, in the proximity of friends, and the mathematical brother made his home with them.  That Buckland took every opportunity of enjoying Sylvia’s conversation was no secret; whether the predilection was mutual, none of his relatives could say, for in a matter such as this Buckland was by nature disposed to reticence.  Sidwell’s intimacy with Miss Moorhouse put her in no better position than the others for forming an opinion; she could only suspect that the irony which flavoured Sylvia’s talk with and concerning the Radical, intimated a lurking kindness.  Buckland’s preference was easily understood, and its growth for five or six years seemed to promise stability.

Immediately after luncheon the young man set forth, and did not reappear until the evening of the next day.  His spirits had not benefited by the excursion; at dinner he was noticeably silent, and instead of going to the drawing-room afterwards he betook himself to the studio up on the roof, and smoked in solitude.  There, towards ten o’clock, Sidwell sought him.  Heavy rain was beating upon the glass, and a high wind blended its bluster with the cheerless sound.

‘Don’t you find it rather cold here?’ she asked, after observing her brother’s countenance of gloom.

‘Yes; I’m coming down.—­Why don’t you keep up your painting?’

‘I have lost interest in it, I’m afraid.’

’That’s very weak, you know.  It seems to me that nothing interests you permanently.’

Sidwell thought it better to make no reply.

‘The characteristic of women,’ Buckland pursued, with some asperity, throwing away the stump of his cigar.  ’It comes, I suppose, of their ridiculous education—­their minds are never trained to fixity of purpose.  They never understand themselves, and scarcely ever make an effort to understand any one else.  Their life is a succession of inconsistencies.’

‘This generalising is so easy,’ said Sidwell, with a laugh, ’and so worthless.  I wonder you should be so far behind the times.’

‘What light have the times thrown on the subject?’

’There’s no longer such a thing as woman in the abstract.  We are individuals.’

’Don’t imagine it!  That may come to pass three or four generations hence, but as yet the best of you can only vary the type in unimportant particulars.  By the way, what is Peak’s address?’

’Longbrook Street; but I don’t know the number.  Father can give it you, I think.’

’I shall have to drop him a note.  I must get back to town early in the morning.’

‘Really?  We hoped to have you for a week.’

‘Longer next time.’

They descended together.  Now that Louis no longer abode here (he had decided at length for medicine, and was at work in London), the family as a rule spent very quiet evenings.  By ten o’clock Mrs Warricombe and Fanny had retired, and Sidwell was left either to talk with her father, or to pursue the calm meditations which seemed to make her independent of companionship as often as she chose.