Before leaving, he exchanged a few words with Buckland.

’Your relatives will be going to town very soon, I understand.

Warricombe nodded.

‘Shall I see you at Exeter?’ Godwin continued.

’I’m not sure.  I shall go over to-morrow, but it’s uncertain whether I shall still be there when you return.’

The Radical was distinctly less amicable than even on the last occasion of their meeting.  They shook hands in rather a perfunctory way.

Early in the evening there was a temporary lull in the storm; rain no longer fell, and in spaces of the rushing sky a few stars showed themselves.  Unable to rest at the hotel, Peak set out for a walk towards the cliff summit called Westdown Beacon; he could see little more than black vacancies, but a struggle with the wind suited his temper, and he enjoyed the incessant roar of surf in the darkness.  After an hour of this buffeting he returned to the beach, and stood as close as possible to the fierce breakers.  No person was in sight.  But when he began to move towards the upper shore, three female figures detached themselves from the gloom and advanced in his direction.  They came so near that their voices were audible, and thereupon he stepped up to them.

‘Are you going to the Beacon after all, Miss Moorhouse?’

Sylvia was accompanied by Agatha Walworth and Miss Moxey.  She explained laughingly that they had stolen out, by agreement, whilst the males of their respective households still lingered at the dinner-table.

’But Mr. Warricombe was right after all.  We shall be blown to pieces.  A very little of the romantic goes a long way, nowadays.’

Godwin was determined to draw Marcella aside.  Seemingly she met his wish, for as all turned to regain the shelter of houses she fell behind her female companions, and stood close by him.

‘I want to see you before you go back to London,’ he said, bending his head near to hers.

‘I wrote a letter to you this morning,’ was her reply.

‘A letter?  To what address?’

‘Your address at Exeter.’

‘But how did you know it?’

‘I’ll explain afterwards.’

‘When can I see you?’

’Not here.  It’s impossible.  I shall go to Exeter, and there write to you again.’

‘Very well.  You promise to do this?’

‘Yes, I promise.’

There was danger even in the exchange of these hurried sentences.  Miss Walworth had glanced back, and might possibly have caught a phrase that aroused curiosity.  Having accompanied the girls to within view of their destination, Peak said good-night, and went home to spend the rest of the evening in thought which was sufficiently absorbing.

The next day he had no sight of Marcella.  At luncheon the Moorhouses were alone.  Afterwards Godwin accepted a proposal of the mathematician (who was generally invisible amid his formulae) for a walk up the Otter valley.  Naturally they talked of Coleridge, whose metaphysical side appealed to Moorhouse.  Peak dwelt on the human and poetical, and was led by that peculiar recklessness of mood, which at times relieved his nervous tension, to defend opium eating, as a source of pleasurable experience.