Peak’s destination was Peckham Rye. On quitting the railway, he had a walk of some ten minutes along a road which smelt of new bricks and stucco heated by the summer sun; an obscure passage led him into a street partly of dwelling-houses, partly of shops, the latter closed. He paused at the side door of one over which the street lamp dimly revealed—‘Button, Herbalist’.

His latch-key admitted him to total darkness, but he moved forward with the confidence of long use. He softly ascended two flights of stairs, opened a door, struck a match, and found himself in a comfortable sitting-room, soon illumined by a reading-lamp. The atmosphere, as throughout the house, was strongly redolent of dried simples. Anyone acquainted with the characteristics of furnished lodgings must have surmised that Peak dwelt here among his own moveables, and was indebted to the occupier of the premises for bare walls alone; the tables and chairs, though plain enough, were such as civilisation permits; and though there were no pictures, sundry ornaments here and there made strong denial of lodging-house affinity. It was at once laboratory, study, and dwelling-room. Two large cabinets, something the worse for transportation, alone formed a link between this abode and the old home at Twybridge. Books were not numerous, and a good microscope seemed to be the only scientific instrument of much importance. On door-pegs hung a knapsack, a botanist’s vasculum, and a geologist’s wallet.

A round table was spread with the materials of supper, and here again an experienced lodger must have bestowed contemplative scrutiny, for no hand of common landlady declared itself in the arrangement. The cloth was spotless, the utensils tasteful and carefully disposed. In a bowl lay an appetising salad, ready for mingling; a fragment of Camembert cheese was relieved upon a setting of green leafage; a bottle of ale, with adjacent corkscrew, stood beside the plate; the very loaf seemed to come from no ordinary baker’s, or was made to look better than its kin by the fringed white cloth in which it nestled.

The custom of four years had accustomed Peak to take these things as a matter of course, yet he would readily have admitted that they were extraordinary enough. Indeed, he even now occasionally contrasted this state of comfort with the hateful experiences of his first six years in London. The subject of lodgings was one of those on which (often intemperate of speech) he spoke least temperately. For six years he had shifted from quarter to quarter, from house to house, driven away each time by the hateful contact of vulgarity in every form,—by foulness and dishonesty, by lying, slandering, quarrelling, by drunkenness, by brutal vice,—by all abominations that distinguish the lodging-letter of the metropolis. Obliged to practise extreme economy, he could not take refuge among self-respecting people, or at all events had no luck in endeavouring to find such among the poorer working-class. To a man of Godwin’s idiosyncrasy the London poor were of necessity abominable, and it anguished him to be forced to live among them.

Rescue came at last, and in a very unexpected way. Resident in the more open part of Bermondsey (winter mornings made a long journey to Rotherhithe intolerable), he happened to walk one day as far as Peckham Rye, and was there attracted by the shop window of a herbalist. He entered to make a purchase, and got into conversation with Mr. Button, a middle-aged man of bright intelligence and more reading than could be expected. The herbalist led his customer to an upper room, in which were stored sundry curiosities, and happened casually to say that he was desirous of finding a lodger for two superfluous chambers. Peak’s inquiries led to his seeing Mrs. Button, whom he found to be a Frenchwoman of very pleasing appearance; she spoke fluent French–English, anything but disagreeable to an ear constantly tormented by the London vernacular. After short reflection he decided to take and furnish the rooms. It proved a most fortunate step, for he lived (after the outlay for furniture) at much less expense than theretofore, and in comparative luxury. Cleanliness, neatness, good taste by no means exhausted Mrs. Button’s virtues; her cooking seemed to the lodger of incredible perfection, and the infinite goodwill with which he was tended made strange contrast with the base usage he had commonly experienced.

In these ten years he had paid but four visits to Twybridge, each of brief duration. Naturally there were changes among his kinsfolk: Charlotte, after an engagement which prolonged itself to the fifth twelvemonth, had become Mrs. Cusse, and her husband now had a draper’s shop of his own, with two children already born into the world of draperdom. Oliver, twice fruitlessly affianced, had at length (when six-and-twenty) wedded a young person whom his mother and his aunt both regarded as a most undesirable connection, the daughter (aged thirty-two) of a man who was drinking himself to death on such money as he could earn by casual reporting for a Twybridge newspaper. Mrs. Peak the elder now abode with her sister at the millinery shop, and saw little of her two married children. With Oliver and Charlotte their brother had no sympathy, and affected none; he never wrote to them, nor they to him; but years had strengthened his regard for his mother, and with her he had fairly regular correspondence. Gladly he would have seen her more often, but the air of shopkeeping he was compelled to breathe when he visited Twybridge nauseated and repelled him. He recognised the suitability both of Oliver and Charlotte for the positions to which life had consigned them—they suffered from no profitless aspiration; but it seemed to him a just cause of quarrel with fate that his kindred should thus have relapsed, instead of bettering the rank their father had bequeathed to them. He would not avow to such friends as Moxey and Earwaker the social standing of his only recognised relatives.

As for the unrecognised, he had long ago heard with some satisfaction that Andrew Peak, having ultimately failed in his Kingsmill venture, returned to London. Encounter with the fatal Andrew had been spared him ever since that decisive day when Master Jowey Peak recited from Coleridge and displayed his etymological genius.

For himself, he had earned daily bread, and something more; he had studied in desultory fashion; he had seen a good deal of the British Isles and had visited Paris. The result of it all was gnawing discontent, intervals of furious revolt, periods of black despair.

He had achieved nothing, and he was alone.

Young still, to be sure; at twenty-nine it is too early to abandon ambitions which are supported by force of brain and of will. But circumstances must needs help if the desires of his soul were to be attained. On first coming to London, received with all friendliness by Christian Moxey, he had imagined that it only depended upon himself to find admission before long to congenial society—by which he then understood the companionship of intelligent and aspiring young men. Christian, however, had himself no such circle, and knew that the awkward lad from Twybridge could not associate with the one or two wealthy families to which he could have presented him. The School of Mines was only technically useful; it helped Godwin to get his place with Bates & Sons, but supplied no friendships. In the third year, Moxey inherited means and left the chemical works for continental travel.

By tormenting attraction Godwin was often led to walk in the wealthy districts of London. Why was no one of these doors open to him? There were his equals; not in the mean streets where he dwelt. There were the men of culture and capacity, the women of exquisite person and exalted mind. Was he the inferior of such people? By heaven, no!

He chanced once to be in Hyde Park on the occasion of some public ceremony, and was brought to pause at the edge of a gaping plebeian crowd, drawn up to witness the passing of aristocratic vehicles. Close in front of him an open carriage came to a stop; in it sat, or rather reclined, two ladies, old and young. Upon this picture Godwin fixed his eyes with the intensity of fascination; his memory never lost the impress of these ladies’ faces. Nothing very noteworthy about them; but to Godwin they conveyed a passionate perception of all that is implied in social superiority. Here he stood, one of the multitude, of the herd; shoulder to shoulder with boors and pick-pockets; and within reach of his hand reposed those two ladies, in Olympian calm, seeming unaware even of the existence of the throng. Now they exchanged a word; now they smiled to each other. How delicate was the moving of their lips! How fine must be their enunciation! On the box sat an old coachman and a young footman; they too were splendidly impassive, scornful of the multitudinous gaze.—The block was relieved, and on the carriage rolled.

They were his equals, those ladies, merely his equals. With such as they he should by right of nature associate.

In his rebellion, he could not hate them. He hated the malodorous rabble who stared insolently at them and who envied their immeasurable remoteness. Of mere wealth he thought not; might he only be recognised by the gentle of birth and breeding for what he really was, and be rescued from the promiscuity of the vulgar!

Yet at this time he was drawn into connection with the movement of popular Radicalism which revolts against religious respectability. Inherited antipathy to all conventional forms of faith outweighed his other prejudices so far as to induce him to write savage papers for The Liberator. Personal contact with artisan freethinkers was disgusting to him. From the meeting of emancipated workmen he went away with scorn and detestation in his heart; but in the quiet of his lodgings he could sit down to aid their propaganda. One explanation of this inconsistency lay in the fact that no other channel was open to his literary impulses. Pure science could not serve him, for he had no original results to announce. Pure literature seemed beyond his scope, yet he was constantly endeavouring to express himself. He burned with the desire of fame, and saw no hope of achieving it save as an author. The Liberator would serve him as a first step. In time he might get foothold in the monthly reviews, and see his name side by side with those of the leaders of thought.

Occasions, of course, offered when he might have extended his acquaintance, but they were never of a kind that he cared to use; at best they would only have admitted him to the homes of decent, semi-educated families, and for such society he was altogether unfitted. The licence of the streets but seldom allured him. After his twenty-fourth year he was proof against the decoys of venal pleasure, and lived a life of asceticism exceedingly rare in young and lonely men. When Christian Moxey returned to London and took the house at Notting Hill, which he henceforth occupied together with his sister, a possibility of social intercourse at length appeared. Indeed it was a substantial gain to sit from time to time at a civilised table, and to converse amid graceful surroundings with people who at all events followed the intellectual current of the day. Careless hitherto of his personal appearance, he now cultivated an elegance of attire in conformity with his aristocratic instincts, and this habit became fixed. When next he visited Twybridge, the change in his appearance was generally remarked. Mrs. Peak naturally understood it as a significant result of his intercourse with Miss Moxey, of whom, as it seemed to her, he spoke with singular reticence.

But Marcella had no charm for Godwin’s imagination, notwithstanding that he presently suspected a warmth of interest on her side which he was far from consciously encouraging. Nor did he find among his friends any man or woman for whose acquaintance he greatly cared. The Moxeys had a very small circle, consisting chiefly of intellectual inferiors. Christian was too indolent to make a figure in society, and his sister suffered from peculiarities of mind and temperament which made it as difficult for her as for Peak himself to form intimate friendships.

When chance encounter brought him into connection with Earwaker, the revival of bygone things was at first doubtfully pleasant. Earwaker himself, remarkably developed and become a very interesting man, was as welcome an associate as he could have found, but it cost him some effort to dismiss the thought of Andrew Peak’s eating-house, and to accept the friendly tact with which the journalist avoided all hint of unpleasant memories. That Earwaker should refrain from a single question concerning that abrupt disappearance, nearly ten years ago, sufficiently declared his knowledge of the unspeakable cause, a reflection which often made Godwin writhe. However, this difficulty was overcome, and the two met very frequently. For several weeks Godwin enjoyed better spirits than he had known since the first excitement of his life in London faded away.

One result was easily foreseen. His mind grew busy with literary projects, many that he had long contemplated and some that were new. Once more he aimed at contributing to the ‘advanced’ reviews, and sketched out several papers of sociological tenor. None of these were written. As soon as he sat down to deliberate composition, a sense of his deficiencies embarrassed him. Godwin’s self-confidence had nothing in common with the conceit which rests on imaginary strength. Power there was in him; of that he could not but be conscious: its true direction he had not yet learned. Defect of knowledge, lack of pen-practice, confusion and contradictoriness of aims, instability of conviction,—these faults he recognised in himself at every moment of inward scrutiny.

On his table this evening lay a library volume which he had of late been reading, a book which had sprung into enormous popularity. It was called Spiritual Aspects of Evolution, and undertook, with confidence characteristic of its kind, to reconcile the latest results of science with the dogmas of Oriental religion. This work was in his mind when he spoke so vehemently at Moxey’s; already he had trembled with an impulse to write something on the subject, and during his journey home a possible essay had begun to shape itself. Late as was the hour he could not prepare for sleep. His brain throbbed with a congestion of thought; he struggled to make clear the lines on which his satire might direct itself. By two o’clock he had flung down on paper a conglomerate of burning ideas, and thus relieved he at length went to bed.

Two days later came a note from Staple Inn, inviting him to meet Malkin the next evening. By this time he had made a beginning of his critical essay, and the exordium so far satisfied him that he was tempted to take it for Earwaker’s judgment. But no; better his friend should see the thing when it was complete.

About eight o’clock he reached the journalist’s chambers. Malkin had not yet arrived. Peak amused himself with examining certain tropical products which the traveller had recently cast pell-mell into his friend’s sitting-room. Then sounded a knock at the door, but it was not such as would have heralded the expected man.

‘A telegram,’ observed Earwaker, and went to take it in.

He returned with hoarse sounds of mirth.

‘Our friend excuses himself. Read this characteristic despatch.’

Peak saw with surprise that the telegram far exceeded familiar dimensions. ‘Unspeakably grieved,’ it began. ‘Cannot possibly with you. At moment’s notice undertaken escort two poor girls Rouen. Not even time look in apologise. Go via Dieppe and leave Victoria few minutes. Hope be back Thursday. Express sincerest regret Mr. Peak. Lament appearance discourtesy. Will apologise personally. Common humanity constrains go Rouen. Will explain Thursday. No time add another word. Rush tickets train.’

‘There you have the man!’ cried Earwaker. ‘How do you class such a mind as that? Ten to one this is some Quixotic obligation he has laid upon himself, and probably he has gone without even a handbag.’

‘Vocally delivered,’ said Peak, ‘this would represent a certain stage of drunkenness. I suppose it isn’t open to such an explanation?’

‘Malkin never was intoxicated, save with his own vivacity.’

They discussed the singular being with good-natured mirth, then turned by degrees to other topics.

‘I have just come across a passage that will delight you,’ said Earwaker, taking up a book. ‘Perhaps you know it.’

He read from Sir Thomas Brown’s Pscudodoxia Epidemica. ‘“Men’s names should not only distinguish them. A man should be something that all men are not, and individual in somewhat beside his proper name. Thus, while it exceeds not the bound of reason and modesty, we cannot condemn singularity. Nos numerus sumus is the motto of the multitude, and for that reason are they fools.”’

Peak laughed his approval.

‘It astonishes me,’ he said, lighting his pipe, ‘that you can go on writing for this Sunday rag, when you have just as little sympathy with its aims as I have. Do get into some less offensive connection.’

‘What paper would you recommend?’ asked the other, with his significant smile.

‘Why need you journalise at all?’

‘On the whole, I like it. And remember, to admit that the multitude are fools is not the same thing as to deny the possibility of progress.’

‘Do you really believe yourself a democrat, Earwaker?’

‘M—m—m! Well, yes, I believe the democratic spirit is stronger in me than any other.’

Peak mused for a minute, then suddenly looked up.

‘And what am I?’

‘I am glad nothing much depends on my successfully defining you.’

They laughed together.

‘I suppose,’ said Godwin, ‘you can’t call a man a democrat who recognises in his heart and soul a true distinction of social classes. Social, mark. The division I instinctively support is by no means intellectual. The well-born fool is very often more sure of my respect than the working man who struggles to a fair measure of education.’

Earwaker would have liked to comment on this with remarks personal to the speaker, but he feared to do so. His silence, however, was eloquent to Peak, who resumed brusquely.

‘I am not myself well-born,—though if my parents could have come into wealth early in their lives, perhaps I might reasonably have called myself so. All sorts of arguments can be brought against my prejudice, but the prejudice is ineradicable. I respect hereditary social standing, independently of the individual’s qualities. There’s nothing of the flunkey in this, or I greatly deceive myself. Birth in a sphere of refinement is desirable and respectable; it saves one, absolutely, from many forms of coarseness. The masses are not only fools, but very near the brutes. Yes, they can send forth fine individuals—but remain base. I don’t deny the possibility of social advance; I only say that at present the lower classes are always disagreeable, often repulsive, sometimes hateful.’

‘I could apply that to the classes above them.’

‘Well, I can’t. But I am quite ready to admit that there are all sorts of inconsistencies in me. Now, the other day I was reading Burns, and I couldn’t describe what exaltation all at once possessed me in the thought that a ploughman had so glorified a servant-girl that together they shine in the highest heaven, far above all the monarchs of earth. This came upon me with a rush—a very rare emotion. Wasn’t that democratic?’

He inquired dubiously, and Earwaker for a moment had no reply but his familiar ‘M—m—m!’

‘No, it was not democratic,’ the journalist decided at length; ‘it was pride of intellect.’

‘Think so? Then look here. If it happens that a whining wretch stops me in the street to beg, what do you suppose is my feeling? I am ashamed in the sense of my own prosperity. I can’t look him in the face. If I yielded to my natural impulse, I should cry out, “Strike me! spit at me! show you hate me!—anything but that terrible humiliation of yourself before me!” That’s how I feel. The abasement of which he isn’t sensible affects me on his behalf. I give money with what delicacy I can. If I am obliged to refuse, I mutter apologies and hurry away with burning cheeks. What does that mean?’

Earwaker regarded him curiously.

‘That is mere fineness of humanity.’

‘Perhaps moral weakness?’

‘I don’t care for the scalpel of the pessimist. Let us give it the better name.’

Peak had never been so communicative. His progress in composition these last evenings seemed to have raised his spirits and spurred the activity of his mind. With a look of pleasure he pursued his self-analysis.

‘Special antipathies—sometimes explicable enough—influence me very widely. Now, I by no means hate all orders of uneducated people. A hedger, a fisherman, a country mason,—people of that kind I rather like to talk with. I could live a good deal with them. But the London vulgar I abominate, root and branch. The mere sound of their voices nauseates me; their vilely grotesque accent and pronunciation—bah! I could write a paper to show that they are essentially the basest of English mortals. Unhappily, I know so much about them. If I saw the probability of my dying in a London lodging-house, I would go out into the sweet-scented fields and there kill myself.’

Earwaker understood much by this avowal, and wondered whether his friend desired him so to do.

‘Well, I can’t say that I have any affection for the race,’ he replied. ‘I certainly believe that, socially and politically, there is less hope of them than of the lower orders in any other part of England.’

‘They are damned by the beastly conditions of their life!’ cried Godwin, excitedly. ‘I don’t mean only the slum-denizens. All, all Hammersmith as much as St. George’s-inthe-East. I must write about this; I must indeed.’

‘Do by all means. Nothing would benefit you more than to get your soul into print.’

Peak delayed a little, then:

‘Well, I am doing something at last.’

And he gave an account of his projected essay. By this time his hands trembled with nervous agitation, and occasionally a dryness of the palate half choked his voice.

‘This may do very well,’ opined Earwaker. ‘I suppose you will try The Critical?’

‘Yes. But have I any chance? Can a perfectly unknown man hope to get in?’

They debated this aspect of the matter. Seeing Peak had laid down his pipe, the journalist offered him tobacco.

‘Thanks; I can’t smoke just yet. It’s my misfortune that I can’t talk earnestly without throwing my body into disorder.’

‘How stolid I am in comparison!’ said Earwaker.

‘That book of M’Naughten’s,’ resumed the other, going back to his subject. ‘I suppose the clergy accept it?’

‘Largely, I believe.’

Peak mused.

‘Now, if I were a clergyman’—

But his eye met Earwaker’s, and they broke into laughter.

‘Why not?’ pursued Godwin. ‘Did I ever tell you that my people originally wished to make a parson of me? Of course I resisted tooth and nail, but it seems to me now that I was rather foolish in doing so. I wish I had been a parson. In many ways the position would have suited me very well.’

‘M—m—m!’

‘I am quite serious. Well, if I were so placed, I should preach Church dogma, pure and simple. I would have nothing to do with these reconciliations. I would stand firm as Jeremy Taylor; and in consequence should have an immense and enthusiastic congregation.’

‘I daresay.’

‘Depend upon it, let the dogmas do what they still can. There’s a vast police force in them, at all events. A man may very strongly defend himself for preaching them.’

The pursuit of this argument led Earwaker to ask:

‘What proportion of the clergy can still take that standing in stolid conscientiousness?’

‘What proportion are convinced that it is untenable?’ returned Peak.

‘Many wilfully shut their eyes to the truth.’

‘No, they don’t shut their eyes!’ cried Godwin. ‘They merely lower a nictitating membrane which permits them to gaze at light without feeling its full impact.’

‘I recommend you to bring that into your paper,’ said the journalist, with his deep chuckle.

An hour later they were conversing with no less animation, but the talk was not so critical. Christian Moxey had come up as a topic, and Earwaker was saying that he found it difficult to divine the man’s personality.

‘You won’t easily do that,’ replied Peak, ‘until you know more of his story. I can’t see that I am bound to secrecy—at all events with you. Poor Moxey imagines that he is in love, and the fancy has lasted about ten years.

‘Ten years?’

‘When I first knew him he was paying obvious attentions to a rather plain cousin down at Twybridge. Why, I don’t know, for he certainly was devoted to a girl here in London. All he has confessed to me is that he had given up hopes of her, but that a letter of some sort or other revived them, and he hastened back to town. He might as well have stayed away; the girl very soon married another man. Less than a year later she had bitterly repented this, and in some way or other she allowed Moxey to know it. Since then they have been Platonic lovers—nothing more, I am convinced. They see each other about once in six months, and presumably live on a hope that the obnoxious husband may decease. I only know the woman as “Constance”; never saw her.’

‘So that’s Moxey? I begin to understand better.’

‘Admirable fellow, but deplorably weak. I have an affection for him, and have had from our first meeting.’

‘Women!’ mused Earwaker, and shook his head.

‘You despise them?’

‘On the whole, I’m afraid so.’

‘Yes, but what women?’ cried the other with impatience. ‘It would be just as reasonable to say that you despise men. Can’t you see that?’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Now look here; the stock objections to women are traditional. They take no account of the vast change that is coming about. Because women were once empty-headed, it is assumed they are all still so en masse. The defect of the female mind? It is my belief that this is nothing more nor less than the defect of the uneducated human mind. I believe most men among the brutally ignorant exhibit the very faults which are cried out upon as exclusively feminine. A woman has hitherto been an ignorant human being; that explains everything.’

‘Not everything; something, perhaps. Remember your evolutionism. The preservation of the race demands in women many kinds of irrationality, of obstinate instinct, which enrage a reasoning man. Don’t suppose I speak theoretically. Four or five years ago I had really made up my mind to marry; I wasted much valuable time among women and girls, of anything but low social standing. But my passions were choked by my logical faculty. I foresaw a terrible possibility—that I might beat my wife. One thing I learned with certainty was that the woman, qua woman, hates abstract thought—hates it. Moreover (and of consequence) she despises every ambition that has not a material end.’

He enlarged upon the subject, followed it into all its ramifications, elaborated the inconsistencies with which it is rife. Peak’s reply was deliberate.

‘Admitting that some of these faults are rooted in sex, I should only find them intolerable when their expression took a vulgar form. Between irrationality and coarseness of mind there is an enormous distinction.’

‘With coarse minds I have nothing to do.’

‘Forgive me if I ask you a blunt question,’ said Peak, after hesitating. ‘Have you ever associated with women of the highest refinement?’

Earwaker laughed.

‘I don’t know what that phrase means. It sounds rather odd on your lips.’

‘Well, women of the highest class of commoners. With peeresses we needn’t concern ourselves.’

‘You imagine that social precedence makes all that difference in women?’

‘Yes, I do. The daughter of a county family is a finer being than any girl who can spring from the nomad orders.’

‘Even supposing your nomads produce a Rachel or a Charlotte Brontee?’

‘We are not talking of genius,’ Peak replied.

‘It was irrelevant, I know.—Well, yes, I have conversed now and then with what you would call well-born women. They are delightful creatures, some of them, in given circumstances. But do you think I ever dreamt of taking a wife drenched with social prejudices?’

Peak’s face expressed annoyance, and he said nothing.

‘A man’s wife,’ pursued Earwaker, ‘may be his superior in whatever you like, except social position. That is precisely the distinction that no woman can forget or forgive. On that account they are the obstructive element in social history. If I loved a woman of rank above my own she would make me a renegade; for her sake I should deny my faith. I should write for the St. James’s Gazette, and at last poison myself in an agony of shame.’

A burst of laughter cleared the air for a moment, but for a moment only. Peak’s countenance clouded over again, and at length he said in a lower tone:

‘There are men whose character would defy that rule.’

‘Yes—to their own disaster. But I ought to have made one exception. There is a case in which a woman will marry without much regard to her husband’s origin. Let him be a parson, and he may aim as high as he chooses.’

Peak tried to smile. He made no answer, and fell into a fit of brooding.

‘What’s all this about?’ asked the journalist, when he too had mused awhile. ‘Whose acquaintance have you been making?’

‘No one’s.’

The suspicion was inevitable.

‘If it were true, perhaps you would be justified in mistrusting my way of regarding these things. But it’s the natural tendency of my mind. If I ever marry at all, it will be a woman of far higher birth than my own.’

‘Don’t malign your parents, old fellow. They gave you a brain inferior to that of few men. You will never meet a woman of higher birth.’

‘That’s a friendly sophism. I can’t thank you for it, because it has a bitter side.’

But the compliment had excited Peak, and after a moment’s delay he exclaimed:

‘I have no other ambition in life—no other! Think the confession as ridiculous as you like; my one supreme desire is to marry a perfectly refined woman. Put it in the correct terms: I am a plebeian, and I aim at marrying a lady.’

The last words were flung out defiantly. He quivered as he spoke, and his face flushed.

‘I can’t wish you success,’ returned his friend, with a grave smile.

‘You couldn’t help it sounding like a sneer, if you did. The desire is hopeless, of course. It’s because I know that, that I have made up my mind to travel for a year or two; it’ll help me on towards the age when I shall regard all women with indifference. We won’t talk about it any more.’

‘One question. You seriously believe that you could find satisfaction in the life to which such a marriage would condemn you?’

‘What life?’ asked Peak, impatiently.

‘That of an average gentleman, let us say, with house in town and country, with friends whose ruling motive was social propriety.’

‘I could enjoy the good and throw aside the distasteful.’

‘What about the distastefulness of your wife’s crass conventionalism, especially in religion?’

‘It would not be crass, to begin with. If her religion were genuine, I could tolerate it well enough; if it were merely a form, I could train her to my own opinions. Society is growing liberal—the best of it. Please remember that I have in mind a woman of the highest type our civilisation can produce.’

‘Then you mustn’t look for her in society!’ cried Earwaker.

‘I don’t care; where you will, so long as she had always lived among people of breeding and high education, and never had her thoughts soiled with the vile contact of poverty.’

Earwaker started up and reached a volume from a shelf. Quickly finding the desired page, he began to read aloud:

‘Dear, had the world in its caprice Deigned to proclaim—I know you both, Have recognised your plighted troth, Am sponsor for you; live in peace!’—

He read to the end of the poem, and then looked up with an admiring smile.

‘An ideal!’ exclaimed Peak. ‘An ideal akin to Murger’s and Musset’s grisettes, who never existed.’

‘An ideal, most decidedly. But pray what is this consummate lady you have in mind? An ideal every bit as much, and of the two I prefer Browning’s. For my own part, I am a polygamist; my wives live in literature, and too far asunder to be able to quarrel. Impossible women, but exquisite. They shall suffice to me.’

Peak rose, sauntered about the room for a minute or two, then said:

‘I have just got a title for my paper. I shall call it “The New Sophistry.”’

‘Do very well, I should think,’ replied the other, smiling. ‘Will you let me see it when it’s done?’

‘Who knows if I shall finish it? Nothing I ever undertook has been finished yet—nothing won that I ever aimed at. Good night. Let me hear about Malkin.’

In a week’s time Godwin received another summons to Staple Inn, with promise of Malkin’s assured presence. In reply he wrote:

‘Owing to a new arrangement at Bates’s, I start tomorrow for my holiday in Cornwall, so cannot see you for a few weeks. Please offer Malkin my apologies; make them (I mean it) as profuse as those he telegraphed. Herewith I send you my paper, “The New Sophistry”, which I have written at a few vehement sittings, and have carelessly copied. If you think it worth while, will you have the kindness to send it for me to The Critical? I haven’t signed it, as my unmeaning name would perhaps indispose the fellow to see much good in it. I should thank you if you would write in your own person, saying that you act for a friend; you are probably well known in those quarters. If it is accepted, time enough to claim my glory. If it seems to you to have no chance, keep it till I return, as I hate the humiliation of refusals.—Don’t think I made an ass of myself the other night. We will never speak on that subject again. All I said was horribly sincere, but I’m afraid you can’t understand that side of my nature. I should never have spoken so frankly to Moxey, though he has made no secret with me of his own weaknesses. If I perish before long in a South American swamp, you will be able to reflect on my personality with completer knowledge, so I don’t regret the indiscretion.’