with him? What to
him were the bygone millions of ages, the hoary records of unimaginable
time? One touch of a girl's hand, one syllable of musical speech,--was
it not that whereof his life had truly need?

As remote from him, however, as the age of the pterodactyl. How often
was it necessary to repeat this? On a long voyage, such as he had all
but resolved to take, one might perchance form acquaintances. He had
heard of such things; not impossibly, a social circle might open to him
at Buenos Ayres. But here in England his poor origin, his lack of means
would for ever bar him from the intimacy of people like the Warricombes.

He loitered towards the South-Western station, dimly conscious of a
purpose to look for trains. Instead of seeking the time-tables he stood
before the bookstall and ran his eye along the titles of new novels; he
had half a mind to buy one of Hardy's and read himself into the temper
which suited summer rambles. But just as his hand was stretched forth,
a full voice, speaking beside him, made demand for a London weekly
paper. Instantly he turned. The tones had carried him back to Whitelaw;
the face disturbed that illusion, but substituted a reality which threw
him into tremor.

His involuntary gaze was met with one of equal intensity. A man of his
own years, but in splendid health and with bright eyes that looked
enjoyment of life, suddenly addressed him.

'Godwin Peak--surely--?'

'Buckland Warricombe, no less surely.'

They shook hands with vigour, laughing in each other's faces; then,
after a moment's pause, Warricombe drew aside from the bookstall, for
sake of privacy.

'Why did we lose sight of each other?' he asked, flashing a glance at
Godwin's costume. 'Why didn't you write to me at Cambridge? What have
you been doing this half-century?'

'I have been in London all the time.'

'I am there most of the year. Well, I rejoice to have met you. On a
holiday?'

'Loitering towards Cornwall.'

'In that case, you can come and have lunch with me at my father's
house. It's only a mile or two off. I was going to walk, but we'll
drive, if you like.'

There was no refusing, and no possibility of reflection. Buckland's
hearty manner made the invitation in itself a thoroughly pleasant one,
and before Peak could sufficiently command his thoughts to picture the
scene towards which he was going they were walking side by side through
the town. In appearance, Warricombe showed nothing of the revol