He loitered towards the South-Western station, dimly conscious of a purpose to look for trains.  Instead of seeking the time-tables he stood before the bookstall and ran his eye along the titles of new novels; he had half a mind to buy one of Hardy’s and read himself into the temper which suited summer rambles.  But just as his hand was stretched forth, a full voice, speaking beside him, made demand for a London weekly paper.  Instantly he turned.  The tones had carried him back to Whitelaw; the face disturbed that illusion, but substituted a reality which threw him into tremor.

His involuntary gaze was met with one of equal intensity.  A man of his own years, but in splendid health and with bright eyes that looked enjoyment of life, suddenly addressed him.

‘Godwin Peak—­surely—?’

‘Buckland Warricombe, no less surely.’

They shook hands with vigour, laughing in each other’s faces; then, after a moment’s pause, Warricombe drew aside from the bookstall, for sake of privacy.

‘Why did we lose sight of each other?’ he asked, flashing a glance at Godwin’s costume.  ’Why didn’t you write to me at Cambridge?  What have you been doing this half-century?’

‘I have been in London all the time.’

’I am there most of the year.  Well, I rejoice to have met you.  On a holiday?’

‘Loitering towards Cornwall.’

’In that case, you can come and have lunch with me at my father’s house.  It’s only a mile or two off.  I was going to walk, but we’ll drive, if you like.’

There was no refusing, and no possibility of reflection.  Buckland’s hearty manner made the invitation in itself a thoroughly pleasant one, and before Peak could sufficiently command his thoughts to picture the scene towards which he was going they were walking side by side through the town.  In appearance, Warricombe showed nothing of the revolutionary which, in old days, he aimed at making himself, and his speech had a suavity which no doubt resulted from much intercourse with the polished world; Godwin was filled with envious admiration of his perfect physique, and the mettle which kept it in such excellent vigour.  Even for a sturdy walker, it was no common task to keep pace with Buckland’s strides; Peak soon found himself conversing rather too breathlessly for comfort.

‘What is your latest record for the mile?’ he inquired.

Warricombe, understanding at once the reference to his old athletic pastime and its present application, laughed merrily, and checked his progress.

’A bad habit of mine; it gets me into trouble with everyone.  By-the-bye, haven’t you become a stronger man than used to seem likely?  I’m quite glad to see how well you look.’