He shed tears of tenderness.  Dear, noble Constance!  It was now nearly twelve years since he first looked upon her face.  In those days he mingled freely with all the society within his reach.  It was not very select, and Constance Markham shone to him like a divinity among creatures of indifferent clay.  They said she was coquettish, that she played at the game of love with every presentable young man —­envious calumny!  No, she was single-hearted, inexperienced, a lovely and joyous girl of not yet twenty.  It is so difficult for such a girl to understand her own emotions.  Her parents persuaded her into wedding Palmer.  That was all gone into the past, and now his concern—­their concern—­was only with the blessed future.

At three o’clock he began to feel a healthy appetite.  He sent for a cab and drove towards the region of restaurants.

Had he yielded to the impulse which this morning directed him to Twybridge, he would have arrived in that town not very long after his sister.

For that was the aim of Marcella’s journey.  On reaching the station, she dropped a light veil over her face and set forth on foot to discover the abode of Mrs. Peak.  No inhabitant of Twybridge save her uncle and his daughters could possibly recognise her, but she shrank from walking through the streets with exposed countenance.  Whether she would succeed in her quest was uncertain.  Godwin Peak’s mother still dwelt here, she knew, for less than a year ago she had asked the question of Godwin himself; but a woman in humble circumstances might not have a house of her own, and her name was probably unknown save to a few friends.

However, the first natural step was to inquire for a directory.  A stationer supplied her with one, informing her, with pride, that he himself was the author of it—­that this was only the second year of its issue, and that its success was ‘very encouraging’.  Retiring to a quiet street, Marcella examined her purchase, and came upon ’Peak, Oliver; seedsman’—­the sole entry of the name.  This was probably a relative of Godwin’s.  Without difficulty she found Mr Peak’s shop; behind the counter stood Oliver himself, rubbing his hands.  Was there indeed a family likeness between this fresh-looking young shopkeeper and the stern, ambitious, intellectual man whose lineaments were ever before her mind?  Though with fear and repulsion, Marcella was constrained to recognise something in the commonplace visage.  With an uncertain voice, she made known her business.

’I wish to find Mrs. Peak—­a widow—­an elderly lady’——­

’Oh yes, madam!  My mother, no doubt.  She lives with her sister, Miss Cadman—­the milliner’s shop in the first street to the left.  Let me point it out.’

With a sinking of the heart, Marcella murmured thanks and walked away.  She found the milliner’s shop—­and went past it.

Why should discoveries such as these be so distasteful to her?  Her own origin was not so exalted that she must needs look down on trades-folk.  Still, for the moment she all but abandoned her undertaking.  Was Godwin Peak in truth of so much account to her?  Would not the shock of meeting his mother be final?  Having come thus far, she must go through with it.  If the experience cured her of a hopeless passion, why, what more desirable?