Two months passed, and his efforts to find employment were still vain, though he had received conditional promises The solitude of his life grew burdensome.  Several times he began a letter to Sidwell, but his difficulty in writing was so great that he destroyed the attempt.  In truth, he knew not how to address her.  The words he penned were tumid, meaningless.  He could not send professions of love, for his heart seemed to be suffering a paralysis, and the laborious artificiality of his style must have been evident.  The only excuse for breaking silence would be to let her know that he had resumed honest work; he must wait till the opportunity offered.  It did not distress him to be without news of her.  If she wished to write, and was only withheld by ignorance of his whereabouts, it was well; if she had no thought of sending him a word, it did not matter.  He loved her, and consciously nourished hope, but for the present there was nothing intolerable in separation.  His state of mind resulted partly from nervous reaction, and in part from a sense that only by silent suffering could his dignity in Sidwell’s eyes be ultimately restored.  Between the evil past and the hopeful future must be a complete break.

His thoughts kept turning to London, though not because Sidwell might still be there.  He felt urgent need of speaking with a friend.  Moxey was perhaps no longer to be considered one; but Earwaker would be tolerant of human weaknesses.  To have a long talk with Earwaker would help him to recover his mental balance, to understand himself and his position better.  So one morning in March, on the spur of the moment, he took train and was once more in the metropolis.  On his way he had determined to send a note to Earwaker before calling at Staple Inn.  He wrote it at a small hotel in Paddington, where he took a room for the night, and then spent the evening at a theatre, as the best way of killing time.

By the first post next morning came a card, whereon Earwaker had written:  ’Be here, if you can, at two o’clock.  Shall be glad to see you.’

‘So you have been new-furnishing!’ Godwin remarked, as he was admitted to the chambers.  ‘You look much more comfortable.’

‘I’m glad you think so.  It is the general opinion.’

They had shaken hands as though this were one of the ordinary meetings of old time, and their voices scarcely belied the appearance.  Peak moved about the study, glancing at pictures and books, Earwaker eyeing him the while with not unfriendly expression.  They were sincerely glad to see each other, and when Peak seated himself it was with an audible sigh of contentment.

‘And what are you doing?’ he inquired.

The journalist gave a brief account of his affairs, and Peak brightened with pleasure.

’This is good news.  I knew you would shake off the ragamuffins before long.  Give me some of your back numbers, will you?  I shall be curious to examine your new style.’