ut for several
days, Buckland took an opportunity of calling at the house early one
morning. He found her alone in a small drawing-room, and sat down with
an expression of weary discontent. This mood had been frequent in the
young man of late. Sidwell remarked a change that was coming over him,
a gloominess unnatural to his character.

'Seen the Walworths lately?' he asked, when his sister had assured him
that she was not seriously ailing.

'We called a few days ago.'

'Meet anyone there?'

'Two or three people. No one that interested me.'

'You haven't come across some friends of theirs called Moxey?'

'Oh yes! Miss Moxey was there one afternoon about a fortnight ago.'

'Did you talk to her at all?' Buckland asked.

'Yes; we hadn't much to say to each other, though. How do you know of
her? Through Sylvia, I daresay.'

'Met her when I was last down yonder.'

Sidwell had long since heard from her friend of Miss Moxey's visit to
Budleigh Salterton, but she was not aware that Buckland had been there
at the same time. Sylvia had told her, however, of the acquaintance
existing between Miss Moxey and Peak, a point of much interest to her,
though it remained a mere unconnected fact. In her short conversation
with Marcella, she had not ventured to refer to it.

'Do you know anything of the family?'

'I was going to ask you the same,' returned Buckland. 'I thought you
might have heard something from the Walworths.'

Sidwell had in fact sought information, but, as her relations with the
Walworths were formal, such inquiry as she could make from them
elicited nothing more than she already knew from Sylvia.

'Are you anxious to discover who they are?' she asked.

Buckland moved uneasily, and became silent.

'Oh, not particularly.'

'I dined with Walsh yesterday,' he said, at length, struggling to shake
off the obvious dreariness that oppressed him. 'He suits me; we can get
on together.'

'No doubt.'

'But you don't dislike him, I think?'

'Implying that I dislike _you_,' said Sidwell, lightsomely.

'You have no affection for my opinions.--Walsh is an honest man.'

'I hope so.'

'He says what he thinks. No compromise with fashionable hypocrisy.'

'I despise that kind of thing quite as much as you do.'

They looked at each other. Buckland had a sullen air.

'Yes, in your own way,' he replied, 'you are sincere enough, I have no
doubt. I wish all women were so.

'What exception have you in mind?'

H