The sounding of the first luncheon-bell left the young men free to go upstairs.  When at length they presented themselves in the drawing-room, Mrs. Warricombe and her younger daughter sat there alone.  The greeting of his hostess did not quite satisfy Godwin, though it was sufficiently courteous; he remembered that ten years ago Mrs. Warricombe had appeared to receive him with some restraint, and his sensation in renewing her acquaintance was one of dislike.  But in a moment the master of the house joined them, and no visitor could have had a more kindly welcome than that he offered to his son’s friend.  With genial tact, Mr. Warricombe ignored the interval since his last conversation with Godwin, and spoke as if this visit were the most natural thing in the world.

‘Do you already know the country about Exeter?’

‘I have seen very little of it yet.’

’Oh, then, we must show you our points of view.  Our own garden offers a glimpse of the river-mouth and a good prospect of Haldon—­ the ridge beyond the Exe; but there are many much better points within easy reach.  You are in no hurry, I hope?’

Louis Warricombe and Miss Moorhouse’s brother were away on a long walk; they did not return for lunch.  Godwin was glad of this, for time had wrought the change in him that he felt more at ease in female society than under the eyes of young men whose social position inclined them to criticism.  The meal proved as delightful as luncheon is wont to be in a luxurious country-house, when brilliant sunshine gleams on the foliage visible from windows, and the warmth of the season sanctions clear colours in costume.  The talk was wholly of country pleasures.  It afforded the visitor no little satisfaction to be able to make known his acquaintance with parts of England to which the Warricombes had not penetrated.  Godwin learnt that the family were insular in their tastes; a mention by Miss Moorhouse of continental scenes led the host to avow a strong preference for his own country, under whatever aspect, and Sidwell murmured her sympathy.

No less introspective than in the old days, though he could better command his muscles, Peak, after each of his short remarks, made comparison of his tone and phraseology with those of the other speakers.  Had he still any marks of the ignoble world from which he sprang?  Any defect of pronunciation, any native awkwardness of utterance?  Impossible to judge himself infallibly, but he was conscious of no vulgar mannerism.  Though it was so long since he left Whitelaw, the accent of certain of the Professors still remained with him as an example:  when endeavouring to be graceful, he was wont to hear the voice of Dr Nares, or of Professor Barber who lectured on English Literature.  More recently he had been observant of Christian Moxey’s speech, which had a languid elegance worth imitating in certain particulars.  Buckland Warricombe was rather a careless talker, but it was the carelessness of a man who had never needed to reflect on such a matter, the refinement of whose enunciation was assured to him from the nursery.  That now was a thing to be aimed at.  Preciseness must be avoided, for in a young man it seemed to argue conscious effort:  a loose sentence now and then, a colloquialism substituted for the more grammatical phrase.