capable of
another word. Christian came to her relief, performed the needful
civilities, and accompanied his acquaintance to the foot of the stairs.
Buckland had become grave, stiff, monosyllabic; Christian made no
allusion to the scene thus suddenly interrupted, and they parted with a
formal air.

Malkin remained for another quarter of an hour, when the muteness of
his companions made it plain to him that he had better withdraw. He
went off with a sense of having been mystified, half resentful, and
vastly impatient to see Earwaker.

Part V

CHAPTER I

The cuckoo clock in Mrs. Roots's kitchen had just struck three. A wind
roared from the north-east, and light thickened beneath a sky which
made threat of snow. Peak was in a mood to enjoy the crackling fire; he
settled himself with a book in his easy-chair, and thought with
pleasure of two hours' reading, before the appearance of the homely
teapot.

Christmas was just over--one cause of the feeling of relief and
quietness which possessed him. No one had invited him for Christmas Eve
or the day that followed, and he did not regret it. The letter he had
received from Martin Warricombe was assurance enough that those he
desired to remember him still did so. He had thought of using this
season for his long postponed visit to Twybridge, but reluctance
prevailed. All popular holidays irritated and depressed him; he loathed
the spectacle of multitudes in Sunday garb. It was all over, and the
sense of that afforded him a brief content.

This book, which he had just brought from the circulating library, was
altogether to his taste. The author, Justin Walsh, he knew to be a
brother of Professor Walsh, long ago the object of his rebellious
admiration. Matter and treatment rejoiced him. No intellectual delight,
though he was capable of it in many forms, so stirred his spirit as
that afforded him by a vigorous modern writer joyously assailing the
old moralities. Justin Walsh was a modern of the moderns; at once man
of science and man of letters; defiant without a hint of popular
cynicism, scornful of English reticences yet never gross. '_Oui,
repondit Pococurante, il est beau d'ecrire ce qu 'on pense; c'est le
privilege de l'homme_.' This stood by way of motto on the title-page,
and Godwin felt his nerves thrill in sympathetic response.

What a fine fellow he must be to have for a friend! Now a man like this
surely had companionship enough and of the kind he wish