This was a dismissal.  Godwin felt the necessity of asserting himself thus far.

‘One question,’ said Warricombe, as he put the periodical back into his pocket.  ‘What do you mean by my “personal motives"?’

Their eyes met for an instant.

‘I mean the motives which you have spoken of.’

It was Buckland’s hope that Peak might reveal his relations with Sidwell, but he shrank from seeming to know anything of the matter.  Clearly, no light was to be had from this source.

‘I am afraid,’ he said, moving to the door, ’that you will find my motives shared by all the people whose acquaintance you have made in Exeter.’

And without further leave-taking he departed.

There was a doubt in his mind.  Peak’s coolness might be the audacity of rascaldom; he preferred to understand it so; but it might have nothing to do with baseness.

‘Confound it!’ he muttered to himself, irritably.  ’In our times life is so deucedly complicated.  It used to be the easiest thing to convict a man of religious hypocrisy; nowadays, one has to bear in mind such a multiplicity of fine considerations.  There’s that fellow Bruno Chilvers:  mightn’t anyone who had personal reasons treat him precisely as I have treated Peak?  Both of them may be honest.  Yet in Peak’s case all appearances are against him—­just because he is of low birth, has no means, and wants desperately to get into society.  The fellow is a scoundrel; I am convinced of it.  Yet his designs may be innocent.  How, then, a scoundrel?——­

’Poor devil!  Has he really fallen in love with Sidwell?——­

’Humbug!  He wants position, and the comfort it brings.  And if he hadn’t acted like a blackguard—­if he had come among us telling the truth—­who knows?  Sidwell wouldn’t then have thought of him, but for my own part I would willingly have given him a hand.  There are plenty of girls who have learned to think for themselves.’

This was an unhappy line of reflection.  It led to Sylvia Moorhouse —­and to grinding of the teeth.  By the time he reached the house, Buckland was again in remorseless mood.

He would have it out with Sidwell.  The desire of proving to her that he had been right from the first overrode all thought of the pain he might inflict.

She was in the library.  At breakfast he had noticed her heavy eyes, and that she made only a pretence of eating.  She was now less unlike herself, but her position at the window showed that she had been waiting impatiently.

‘Isn’t mother coming down to-day?’ he asked.

‘Yes; after luncheon she will go out for an hour, if it keeps fine.’

‘And to-morrow you return?’

‘If mother feels able to travel.’

He had The Criticalin his hand, and stood rustling the pages with his fingers.

‘I have been to see Peak.’

‘Have you?’

She moved a few steps and seated herself sideways on a small chair.