that it might perchance become reality—­dreams, dreams!  He must woo as a man, and trust to fortune for his escape from a false position.  Sidwell should hear nothing more of clerical projects.  He was by this time convinced that she held far less tenaciously than he had supposed to the special doctrines of the Church; and, if he had not deceived himself in interpreting her behaviour, a mutual avowal of love would involve ready consent on her part to his abandoning a career which—­as he would represent it—­had been adopted under a mistaken impulse.  He returned to the point which he had reached when he set forth with the intention of bidding good-bye to the Warricombes—­except that in flinging away hypocrisy he no longer needed to trample his desires.  The change need not be declared till after a lapse of time.  For the present his task was to obtain one more private interview with Sidwell ere she went to London, or, if that could not be, somehow to address her in unmistakable language.

The fumes were dispelled from his brain, and as he walked homeward he plotted and planned with hopeful energy.  Sylvia Moorhouse came into his mind; could he not in some way make use of her?  He had never yet been to see her at Budleigh Salterton.  That he would do forthwith, and perchance the visit might supply him with suggestions.

On the morrow he set forth, going by train to Exmouth, and thence by the coach which runs twice a day to the little seaside town.  The delightful drive, up hill and down dale, with its magnificent views over the estuary, and its ever-changing wayside beauties, put him into the best of spirits.  About noon, he alighted at the Rolle Arms, the hotel to which the coach conducts its passengers, and entered to take a meal.  He would call upon the Moorhouses at the conventional hour.  The intervening time was spent pleasantly enough in loitering about the pebbled beach.  A south-west breeze which had begun to gather clouds drove on the rising tide.  By four o’clock there was an end of sunshine, and spurts of rain mingled with flying foam.  Peak turned inland, pursued the leafy street up the close-sheltered valley, and came to the house where his friends dwelt.

In crossing the garden he caught sight of a lady who sat in a room on the ground floor; her back was turned to the window, and before he could draw near enough to see her better she had moved away, but the glimpse he had obtained of her head and shoulders affected him with so distinct an alarm that his steps were checked.  It seemed to him that he had recognised the figure, and if he were right.—­But the supposition was ridiculous; at all events so vastly improbable, that he would not entertain it.  And now he descried another face, that of Miss Moorhouse herself, and it gave him a reassuring smile.  He rang the door bell.