This book, which he had just brought from the circulating library, was altogether to his taste.  The author, Justin Walsh, he knew to be a brother of Professor Walsh, long ago the object of his rebellious admiration.  Matter and treatment rejoiced him.  No intellectual delight, though he was capable of it in many forms, so stirred his spirit as that afforded him by a vigorous modern writer joyously assailing the old moralities.  Justin Walsh was a modern of the moderns; at once man of science and man of letters; defiant without a hint of popular cynicism, scornful of English reticences yet never gross. ’Oui, repondit Pococurante, il est beau d’ecrire ce qu ’on pense; c’est le privilege de l’homme.’  This stood by way of motto on the title-page, and Godwin felt his nerves thrill in sympathetic response.

What a fine fellow he must be to have for a friend!  Now a man like this surely had companionship enough and of the kind he wished?  He wrote like one who associates freely with the educated classes both at home and abroad.  Was he married?  Where would he seek his wife?  The fitting mate for him would doubtless be found among those women, cosmopolitan and emancipated, whose acquaintance falls only to men in easy circumstances and of good social standing, men who travel much, who are at home in all the great centres of civilisation.

As Peak meditated, the volume fell upon his knee.  Had it not lain in his own power to win a reputation like that which Justin Walsh was achieving?  His paper in The Critical Review, itself a decided success, might have been followed up by others of the same tenor.  Instead of mouldering in a dull cathedral town, he might now be living and working in France or Germany.  His money would have served one purpose as well as the other, and two or three years of determined effort——­

Mrs. Roots showed her face at the door.

‘A gentleman is asking for you, sir,—­Mr. Chilvers.’

‘Mr. Chilvers?  Please ask him to come up.’

He threw his book on to the table, and stood in expectancy.  Someone ascended the stairs with rapid stride and creaking boots.  The door was flung open, and a cordial but affected voice burst forth in greeting.

’Ha, Mr. Peak!  I hope you haven’t altogether forgotten me?  Delighted to see you again!’

Godwin gave his hand, and felt it strongly pressed, whilst Chilvers gazed into his face with a smiling wistfulness which could only be answered with a grin of discomfort.  The Rev. Bruno had grown very tall, and seemed to be in perfect health; but the effeminacy of his brilliant youth still declared itself in his attitudes, gestures, and attire.  He was dressed with marked avoidance of the professional pattern.  A hat of soft felt but not clerical, fashionable collar and tie, a sweeping ulster, and beneath it a frock-coat, which was doubtless the pride of some West End tailor.  His patent-leather boots were dandiacally diminutive; his glove fitted like that of a lady who lives but to be bien gantee.  The feathery hair, which at Whitelaw he was wont to pat and smooth, still had its golden shimmer, and on his face no growth was permitted.