Peak’s acquaintance with current politics was slight, but Mr. Ellis Godolphin, the aristocratic Radical, necessarily stood before his imagination with some clearness of outline.  So this was how life had dealt with Buckland.  The announcement was made with a certain satisfaction, as if it implied more than the hearer would readily appreciate.  Again there was a slight shrinking on Godwin’s part; it would be natural for him to avow his own position, and so leave no room for misunderstandings, but before he could shape a phrase Buckland was again questioning.

‘Do you ever see any of the old fellows?’

‘I have met one or two of them, by chance.’

As if his tact informed him that this inquiry had been a mistake, Warricombe resumed the subject of his family.

’My brother Louis is at home—­of course you can’t remember him; he was a youngster when you were at Thornhaw.  The younger boy died some years ago, a pony accident; cut up my father dreadfully.  Then there’s my sister Sidwell, and my sister Fanny—­that’s all of us.  I can’t quite answer for Louis, but the rest are of the old school.  Liberal enough, don’t be afraid.  But—­well, the old school.’

As Godwin kept silence, the speaker shot a glance at him, keenly scrutinising.  Their eyes did not meet; Peak kept his on the ground.

‘Care much about politics nowadays?’

‘Not very much.’

‘Can’t say that I do myself,’ pursued Buckland.  ’I rather drifted into it.  Godolphin, I daresay, has as little humbug about him as most parliamentarians; we stick to the practical fairly well.  I shall never go into the House on my own account.  But there’s a sort of pleasure in being in the thick of public movements.  I’m not cut out for debate; should lose my temper, and tell disagreeable truths —­which wouldn’t do, you know.  But behind the scenes—­it isn’t bad, in a way.’

A longer pause obliged Godwin to speak of himself.

’My life is less exciting.  For years I have worked in a manufacturing laboratory at Rotherhithe.’

’So science has carried the day with you, after all.  It used to be very doubtful.’

This was a kind and pleasant way of interpreting necessity.  Godwin felt grateful, and added with a smile: 

’I don’t think I shall stick to it much longer.  For one thing, I am sick of town.  Perhaps I shall travel for a year or two; perhaps—­ I’m in a state of transition, to tell the truth.’

Buckland revolved this information; his face told that he found it slightly puzzling.

‘You once had thoughts of literature.’

‘Long given up.’

‘Leisure would perhaps revive them?’

‘Possibly; but I think not.’