How happy—­he said to himself—­those men who go to call upon their friends without a tremor!  Even if he had not received that shock a moment ago, he would still have needed to struggle against the treacherous beating of his heart as he waited for admission.  It was always so when he visited the Warricombes, or any other family in Exeter.  Not merely in consequence of the dishonest part he was playing, but because he had not quite overcome the nervousness which so anguished him in earlier days.  The first moment after his entering a drawing-room cost him pangs of complex origin.

His eyes fell first of all upon Mrs. Moorhouse, who advanced to welcome him.  He was aware of three other persons in the room.  The nearest, he could perceive without regarding her, was Sidwell’s friend; the other two, on whom he did not yet venture to cast a glance, sat—­or rather had just risen—­in a dim background.  As he shook hands with Sylvia, they drew nearer; one of them was a man, and, as his voice at once declared, no other than Buckland Warricombe.  Peak returned his greeting, and, in the same moment, gazed at the last of the party.  Mrs. Moorhouse was speaking.

‘Mr. Peak—­Miss Moxey.’

A compression of the lips was the only sign of disturbance that anyone could have perceived on Godwin’s countenance.  Already he had strung himself against his wonted agitation, and the added trial did not sensibly enhance what he suffered.  In discovering that he had rightly identified the figure at the window, he experienced no renewal of the dread which brought him to a stand-still.  Already half prepared for this stroke of fate, he felt a satisfaction in being able to meet it so steadily.  Tumult of thought was his only trouble; it seemed as if his brain must burst with the stress of its lightning operations.  In three seconds, he re-lived the past, made several distinct anticipations of the future, and still discussed with himself how he should behave this moment.  He noted that Marcella’s face was bloodless; that her attempt to smile resulted in a very painful distortion of brow and lips.  And he had leisure to pity her.  This emotion prevailed.  With a sense of magnanimity, which afterwards excited his wonder, he pressed the cold hand and said in a cheerful tone: 

’Our introduction took place long ago, if I’m not mistaken.  I had no idea, Miss Moxey, that you were among Mrs. Moorhouse’s friends.’

‘Nor I that you were, Mr. Peak,’ came the answer, in a steadier voice than Godwin had expected.

Mrs. Moorhouse and her daughter made the pleasant exclamations that were called for.  Buckland Warricombe, with a doubtful smile on his lips, kept glancing from Miss Moxey to her acquaintance and back again.  Peak at length faced him.

‘I hoped we should meet down here this autumn.’

‘I should have looked you up in a day or two,’ Buckland replied, seating himself.  ’Do you propose to stay in Exeter through the winter?’