'Confound it!' he muttered to himself, irritably. 'In our times life is so deucedly complicated. It used to be the easiest thing to convict a man of religious hypocrisy; nowadays, one has to bear in mind such a multiplicity of fine considerations. There's that fellow Bruno Chilvers: mightn't anyone who had personal reasons treat him precisely as I have treated Peak? Both of them _may_ be honest. Yet in Peak's case all appearances are against him--just because he is of low birth, has no means, and wants desperately to get into society. The fellow is a scoundrel; I am convinced of it. Yet his designs may be innocent. How, then, a scoundrel?---- 'Poor devil! Has he really fallen in love with Sidwell?---- 'Humbug! He wants position, and the comfort it brings. And if he hadn't acted like a blackguard--if he had come among us telling the truth--who knows? Sidwell wouldn't then have thought of him, but for my own part I would willingly have given him a hand. There are plenty of girls who have learned to think for themselves.' This was an unhappy line of reflection. It led to Sylvia Moorhouse--and to grinding of the teeth. By the time he reached the house, Buckland was again in remorseless mood. He would have it out with Sidwell. The desire of proving to her that he had been right from the first overrode all thought of the pain he might inflict. She was in the library. At breakfast he had noticed her heavy eyes, and that she made only a pretence of eating. She was now less unlike herself, but her position at the window showed that she had been waiting impatiently. 'Isn't mother coming down to-day?' he asked. 'Yes; after luncheon she will go out for an hour, if it keeps fine.' 'And to-morrow you return?' 'If mother feels able to travel.' He had _The Critical_ in his hand, and stood rustling the pages with his fingers. 'I have been to see Peak.' 'Have you?' She moved a few steps and seated herself sideways on a small chair. 'My business with him was confoundedly unpleasant. I'm glad it's over. I wish I had known what I now do half a year ago.' 'Let me hear what it is.' 'You remember that I told you to be on your guard against Peak?' Sidwell smiled faintly, and glanced at him, but made no answer. 'I knew he wasn't to be trusted,' pursued her brother, with gloomy satisfaction. 'And I had far better means of judging than father or you; but, of course, my suspicions were ungenerous and cynical.' 'Will you come to the point?' said Sidwell, in an irritated tone. 'I think you read this article in _The Critical_?' He approached and showed it to her. 'We spoke of it once, _a propos_ of M'Naughten's book.' She raised her eyes, and met his with a look of concern she could not disguise. 'What of that?' 'Peak is the author of it. It seems to have been written just about the time when I met him and brought him here as a visitor, and it was published after he had begun to edify you with his zeal for Christianity.' She held out her hand.