se, he had probably 'taken stock' of Mr. Warricombe's
idiosyncrasy, and saw therein a valuable opportunity for a theological
student, who at the same time was a devotee of natural science. To be
sure, the people at Exeter could be put on their guard. On the other
hand, Peak had plainly avowed his desire to form social connections of
the useful kind; in his position such an aim was essential, a mere
matter of course.

Godwin's voice interrupted this train of thought.

'Let me ask you a plain question. You have twice been kind enough to
introduce me to your home as a friend of yours. Am I guilty of
presumption in hoping that your parents will continue to regard me as
an acquaintance? I trust there's no need to assure you that I know the
meaning of discretion.'

An appeal to Buckland's generosity seldom failed. Yes, it was true that
he had more than once encouraged the hope now frankly expressed.
Indulging a correspondent frankness, he might explain that Peak's
position was so distasteful to him that it disturbed the future with
many kinds of uncertainty. But this would be churlish. He must treat
his guest as a gentleman, so long as nothing compelled him to take the
less agreeable view.

'My dear Peak, let us have none of these formalities. My parents have
distinctly invited you to go and see them whenever you are in the
neighbourhood. I am quite sure they will help to make your stay in
Exeter a pleasant one.'

Therewith closed the hazardous dialogue. Warricombe turned at once to a
safe topic--that of contemporary fiction, and they chatted pleasantly
enough for the rest of the evening.

Not many days after this, Godwin received by post an envelope which
contained certain proof sheets, and therewith a note in which the
editor of _The Critical Review_ signified his acceptance of a paper
entitled 'The New Sophistry'. The communication was originally
addressed to Earwaker, who had scribbled at the foot, 'Correct, if you
are alive, and send back to Dolby.'

The next morning he did not set out as usual for Rotherhithe. Through
the night he had not closed his eyes; he was in a state of nervousness
which bordered on fever. A dozen times he had read over the proofs,
with throbbing pulse, with exultant self-admiration: but the printer's
errors which had caught his eye, and a few faults of phrase, were still
uncorrected. What a capital piece of writing it was! What a
flagellation of M'Naughten and all his tribe! If this did