y him. Profiting by it, he stood
for ever indebted to Marcella, must needs be grateful to her, and some
day, assuredly, would reveal the truth to whatever woman became his
wife. Conflict of reasonings and emotions made it difficult to answer
Moxey's question.

'I must take time to think of it,' he said, at length.

'Well, I suppose that is right. But--well, I know so little of your
circumstances'----

'Is that strictly true?' Peak asked.

'Yes. I have only the vaguest idea of what you have been doing since
you left us. Of course I have tried to find out.'

Godwin smiled, rather gloomily.

'We won't talk of it. I suppose you stay in St. Helen's for the night?'

'There's a train at 10.20. I had better go by it.'

'Then let us forget everything but your own cheerful outlook. At ten,
I'll walk with you to the station.'

Reluctantly at first, but before long with a quiet abandonment to the
joy that would not be suppressed, Christian talked of his future wife.
In Janet he found every perfection. Her mind was something more than
the companion of his own. Already she had begun to inspire him with a
hopeful activity, and to foster the elements of true manliness which he
was conscious of possessing, though they had never yet had free play.
With a sense of luxurious safety, he submitted to her influence,
knowing none the less that it was in his power to complete her
imperfect life. Studiously he avoided the word 'ideal'; from such
vaporous illusions he had turned to the world's actualities; his
language dealt with concretes, with homely satisfactions, with
prospects near enough to be soberly examined.

A hurry to catch the train facilitated parting. Godwin promised to
write in a few days.

He took a roundabout way back to his lodgings. The rain was over, the
sky had become placid. He was conscious of an effect from Christian's
conversation which half counteracted the mood he would otherwise have
indulged,--the joy of liberty and of an outlook wholly new. Sidwell
might perchance be to him all that Janet was to Christian. Was it not
the luring of 'ideals' that prompted him to turn away from his long
hope?

There must be no more untruthfulness. Sidwell must have all the facts
laid before her, and make her choice.

Without a clear understanding of what he was going to write, he sat
down at eleven o'clock, and began, 'Dear Miss Warricombe'. Why not
'Dear Sidwell'? He took another sheet of paper.

'Dear Sidwell,--To-n