In the morning he returned to the seaside.  Prospect of pleasure there was none, but by moving about he made the time pass more quickly.  Wandering in the lanes (which would have delighted him with their autumnal beauties had his mind been at rest), he came upon Miss Walworth, busy with a water-colour sketch.  Though their acquaintance was so slight, he stopped for conversation, and the artist’s manner appeared to testify that Marcella had as yet made no unfavourable report of him.  By mentioning that he would return home on the morrow, he made sure that Marcella would be apprised of this.  Perhaps she might shorten her stay, and his suspense.

Back in Longbrook Street once more, he found another letter.  It was from Mrs. Warricombe, who wrote to tell him of their coming removal to London, and added an invitation to dine four days hence.  Then at all events he would speak again with Sidwell.  But to what purpose?  Could he let her go away for months, and perhaps all but forget him among the many new faces that would surround her.  He saw no feasible way of being with her in private.  To write was to run the gravest risk; things were not ripe for that.  To take Martin into his confidence?  That asked too much courage.  Deliberate avowals of this kind seemed to him ludicrous and humiliating, and under the circumstances—­no, no; what force of sincerity could make him appear other than a scheming adventurer?

He lived in tumult of mind and senses.  When at length, on the day before his engagement with the Warricombes, there came a note from Marcella, summoning him to the interview agreed upon, he could scarcely endure the hour or two until it was time to set forth; every minute cost him a throb of pain.  The torment must have told upon his visage, for on entering the room where Marcella waited he saw that she looked at him with a changing expression, as if something surprised her.

They shook hands, but without a word.  Marcella pointed to a chair, yet remained standing.  She was endeavouring to smile; her eyes fell, and she coloured.

‘Don’t let us make each other uncomfortable,’ Peak exclaimed suddenly, in the off-hand tone of friendly intimacy.  ’There’s nothing tragic in this affair, after all.  Let us talk quietly.’

Marcella seated herself.

‘I had reasons,’ he went on, ’for going away from my old acquaintances for a time.  Why not, if I chose?  You have found me out.  Very well; let us talk it over as we have discussed many another moral or psychological question.’

He did not meditate these sentences.  Something must of necessity be said, and words shaped themselves for him.  His impulse was to avoid the emotional, to talk with this problematic woman as with an intellectual friend of his own sex.

‘Forgive me,’ were the first sounds that came from Marcella’s lips.  She spoke with bent head, and almost in a whisper.

‘What have I to forgive?’ He sat down and leaned sideways in the easy chair.  ‘You were curious about my doings?  What more natural?’