withdraw. He went off with a
sense of having been mystified, half resentful, and vastly impatient to see
Earwaker.
 

                                 Part the Fifth

                                       I

The cuckoo clock in Mrs. Roots's kitchen had just struck three. A wind roared
from the north-east, and light thickened beneath a sky which made threat of
snow. Peak was in a mood to enjoy the crackling fire; he settled himself with a
book in his easy-chair, and thought with pleasure of two hours' reading, before
the appearance of the homely teapot.
    Christmas was just over - one cause of the feeling of relief and quietness
which possessed him. No one had invited him for Christmas Eve or the day that
followed, and he did not regret it. The letter he had received from Martin
Warricombe was assurance enough that those he desired to remember him still did
so. He had thought of using this season for his long postponed visit to
Twybridge, but reluctance prevailed. All popular holidays irritated and
depressed him; he loathed the spectacle of multitudes in Sunday garb. It was all
over, and the sense of that afforded him a brief content.
    This book, which he had just brought from the circulating library, was
altogether to his taste. The author, Justin Walsh, he knew to be a brother of
Professor Walsh, long ago the object of his rebellious admiration. Matter and
treatment rejoiced him. No intellectual delight, though he was capable of it in
many forms, so stirred his spirit as that afforded him by a vigorous modern
writer joyously assailing the old moralities. Justin Walsh was a modern of the
moderns; at once man of science and man of letters; defiant without a hint of
popular cynicism, scornful of English reticences yet never gross. »Oui, répondit
Pococurante, il est beau d'écrire ce qu'on pense; c'est le privilége de l'homme.
« This stood by way of motto on the title-page, and Godwin felt his nerves
thrill in sympathetic response.
    What a fine fellow he must be to have for a friend! Now a man like this
surely had companionship enough and of the kind he wished? He wrote like one who
associates freely with the educated classes both at home and abroad. Was he
married? Where would he seek his wife? The fitting mate for him would doubtless
be found among those women, cosmopolitan and emancipated, whose acquaintance
falls only to men in easy circumstances and of good social standing, men who
travel much, who are at home in all the great centres of civilisation.
    As Peak meditated, the volume fell