And on the moment he was gone.

What were this man’s real opinions?  He had brains and literature; his pose before the world was not that of an ignorant charlatan.  Vanity, no doubt, was his prime motive, but did it operate to make a cleric of a secret materialist, or to incite a display of excessive liberalism in one whose convictions were orthodox?  Godwin could not answer to his satisfaction, but he preferred the latter surmise.

One thing, however, became clear to him.  All his conscientious scruples about entering the Church were superfluous.  Chilvers would have smiled pityingly at anyone who disputed his right to live by the Establishment, and to stand up as an authorised preacher of the national faith.  And beyond a doubt he regulated his degree of ‘breadth’ by standards familiar to him in professional intercourse.  To him it seemed all-sufficient to preach a gospel of moral progress, of intellectual growth, of universal fraternity.  If this were the tendency of Anglicanism, then almost any man who desired to live a cleanly life, and to see others do the same, might without hesitation become a clergyman.  The old formulae of subscription were so symbolised, so volatilised, that they could not stand in the way of anyone but a combative nihilist.  Peak was conscious of positive ideals by no means inconsistent with Christian teaching, and in his official capacity these alone would direct him.

He spent his evening pleasantly, often laughing as he recalled a phrase or gesture of the Rev. Bruno’s.

In the night fell a sprinkling of snow, and when the sun rose it gleamed from a sky of pale, frosty blue.  At ten o’clock Godwin set out for his usual walk, choosing the direction of the Old Tiverton Road.  It was a fortnight since he had passed the Warricombes’ house.  At present he was disposed to indulge the thoughts which a sight of it would make active.

He had begun the ascent of the hill when the sound of an approaching vehicle caused him to raise his eyes—­they were generally fixed on the ground when he walked alone.  It was only a hired fly.  But, as it passed him, he recognised the face he had least expected to see,—­ Sidwell Warricombe sat in the carriage, and unaccompanied.  She noticed him—­smiled—­and bent forward.  He clutched at his hat, but it happened that the driver had turned to look at him, and, instead of the salute he had intended, his hand waved to the man to stop.  The gesture was scarcely voluntary; when he saw the carriage pull up, his heart sank; he felt guilty of monstrous impudence.  But Sidwell’s face appeared at the window, and its expression was anything but resentful; she offered her hand, too.  Without preface of formal phrase he exclaimed: 

‘How delightful to see you so unexpectedly!  Are you all here?’

‘Only mother and I. We have come for a day or two.’

’Will you allow me to call?  If only for a few minutes’——­

‘We shall be at home this afternoon.’