Marcella did not change her position, but at the sound of Peak’s name she stirred, as if with an intention, at once checked, of bending eagerly forward.

‘In America?’ she asked, incredulously.

’At Boston.  He met him in the street—­or thinks he did.  There’s a doubt.  When Malkin spoke to the man, he declared that he was not Peak at all—­said there was a mistake.’

Marcella moved so as to show her face; endeavouring to express an unemotional interest, she looked coldly scornful.

‘That ridiculous man can’t be depended upon,’ she said.

There had been one meeting between Marcella and Mr. Malkin, with the result that each thoroughly disliked the other—­an antipathy which could have been foreseen.

‘Well, there’s no saying,’ replied Christian.  ’But of one thing I feel pretty sure:  we have seen the last of Peak.  He’ll never come back to us.’

‘Why not?’

’I can only say that I feel convinced he has broken finally with all his old friends.—­We must think no more of him, Marcella.’

His sister rose slowly, affected to glance at a book, and in a few moments said good-night.  For another hour Christian sat by himself in gloomy thought.

At breakfast next morning Marcella announced that she would be from home the whole day; she might return in time for dinner, but it was uncertain.  Her brother asked no questions, but said that he would lunch in town.  About ten o’clock a cab was summoned, and Marcella, without leave-taking, drove away.

Christian lingered as long as possible over the morning paper, unable to determine how he should waste the weary hours that lay before him.  There was no reason for his remaining in London through this brief season of summer glow.  Means and leisure were his, he could go whither he would.  But the effort of decision and departure seemed too much for him.  Worst of all, this lassitude (not for the first time) was affecting his imagination; he thought with a dull discontent of the ideal love to which he had bound himself.  Could he but escape from it, and begin a new life!  But he was the slave of his airy obligation; for very shame’s sake his ten years’ consistency must be that of a lifetime.

There was but one place away from London to which he felt himself drawn, and that was the one place he might not visit.  This morning’s sunshine carried him back to that day when he had lain in the meadow near Twybridge and talked with Godwin Peak.  How distinctly he remembered his mood!  ’Be practical—­don’t be led astray after ideals—­concentrate yourself;’—­yes, it was he who had given that advice to Peak:  and had he but recked his own rede—!  Poor little Janet! was she married?  If so, her husband must be a happy man.

Why should he not go down to Twybridge?  His uncle, undoubtedly still living, must by this time have forgotten the old resentment, perhaps would be glad to see him.  In any case he might stroll about the town and somehow obtain news of the Moxey family.