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.'

They were now quitting the town, and Peak, unwilling to appear before
strangers in a state of profuse perspiration, again moderated his
friend's speed. They began to talk about the surrounding country, a
theme which occupied them until the house was reached. With
quick-beating heart, Godwin found himself at the gate by which he had
already twice passed. Secure in the decency of his apparel, and no
longer oppressed by bashfulness, he would have gone joyously forward
but for the dread of a possible ridiculous association which his name
might revive in the thoughts of Mr. and Mrs. Warricombe. Yet
Buckland--who had no lack of kindly feeling--would hardly have brought
him here had the reception which awaited him been at all dubious.

'If we don't come across anyone,' said Warricombe, 'we'll go straight
up to my room.'

But the way was not clear. Within the beautiful old porch sat Sidwell
Warricombe and her friend of the striking co