Peak vouchsafed no reply, but, when they had proceeded a little distance, he exclaimed harshly:
'I hate emancipated women!'
His companion stopped and laughed loudly.
'Yes, I hate emancipated women,' the other repeated, with deliberation. 'Women ought neither to be enlightened nor dogmatic. They ought to be sexual.'
'That's unusual brutality on your part.'
'Well, you know what I mean.'
'I know what you think you mean,' said Earwaker. 'But the woman who is neither enlightened nor dogmatic is only too common in society. They are fools, and troublesome fools.'
Peak again kept silence.
'The emancipated woman,' pursued his friend, 'needn't be a Miss Moxey, nor yet a Mrs. Morton.'
'Miss Moxey is intolerable,' said Peak. 'I can't quite say why I dislike her so, but she grows more antipathetic to me the better I know her. She has not a single feminine charm--not one. I often feel very sorry for her, but dislike her all the same.'
'Sorry for her,' mused Earwaker. 'Yes, so do I. I can't like her either. She is certainly an incomplete woman. But her mind is of no low order. I had rather talk with her than with one of the imbecile prettinesses. I half believe you have a sneaking sympathy with the men who can't stand education in a wife.'
'It's possible. In some moods.'
'In no mood can I conceive such a prejudice. I have no great attraction to women of any kind, but the uneducated woman I detest.'
'Well, so do I,' muttered Peak. 'Do you know what?' he added, abruptly. 'I shall be off to the Pacific. Yes, I shall go this next winter. My mind is made up.'
'I shan't try to dissuade you, old fellow, though I had rather have you in sight. Come and see Malkin. I'll drop you a note with an appointment.'
'Do.'
They soon reached the station, and exchanged but few more words before Earwaker's leaving the train at Farringdon Street. Peak pursued his journey towards the south-east of London.
On reaching home, the journalist flung aside his foolish coat of ceremony, indued a comfortable jacket, lit a pipe with long stem, and began to glance over an evening newspaper. He had not long reposed in his arm-chair when the familiar appeal thundered from without. Malkin once more shook his hand effusively.
'Had my journey to Fulham for nothing. Didn't matter; I ran over to Putney and looked up my old landlady. The rooms are occupied by a married couple, but I think we shall succeed in persuading them to make way for me. I promised to find them lodgings every bit as good in two days' time.'
'If that is so easy, why not take the new quarters yourself?'
'Why, to tell you the truth, I didn't think of it!--Oh, I had rather have the old crib; I can do as I like there, you know. Confound it! Now I shall have to spend all to-morrow lodging-hunting for other people. Couldn't I pay a man to do it? Some confidential agent--private police--you know what I mean?'
'A man of any delicacy,' replied Earwaker, with grave countenance, 'would feel bound by such a promise to personal exertion.'
'Right; quite right! I didn't mean it; of course I shall hunt conscientiously. Oh, I say; I have brought over a couple of armadilloes. Would you like one?'
'Stuffed, do you mean?'
'Pooh! Alive, man, alive! They only need a little care. I should think you might keep the creature in your kitchen; they become quite affectionate.'
The offer was unhesitatingly declined, and Malkin looked hurt. There needed a good deal of genial explanation before Earwaker could restore him to his sprightly mood.
'Where have you been dining?' cried the traveller. 'Moxey's--ah, I remember. But who _is_ Moxey? A new acquaintance, eh?'
'Yes; I have known him about six months. Got to know him through Peak.'
'Peak? Peak? What, the fellow you once told me about--who disappeared from Whitelaw because of his uncle, the cat's-meat man?'
'The man's-meat man, rather.'
'Yes, yes--the eating-house; I remember. You have met him again? Why on earth didn't you tell me in your letters? What became of him? Tell me the story.'
'Certainly, if you will cease to shake down plaster from the ceiling.--We met in a restaurant (appropriate scene), happening to sit at the same table. Whilst eating, we stared at each other fitfully. "I'll be hanged if that isn't Peak," I kept saying to myself. And at the same moment we opened our lips to question each other.'
'Just the same thing happened once to a friend of mine and a friend of his. But it was on board ship, and both were devilish seasick. Walker--you remember my friend Walker?--tells the story in a side-splitting way. I wonder what has become of Walker? The last time I met him he was travelling agent for a menagerie--a most interesting fellow, Walker.--But I beg your pardon. Go on, old fellow!'
'Well, after that we at once saw a good deal of each other. He has been working for years at a chemical factory down on the river; Moxey used to be there, and got him the place.'
'Moxey?--Oh yes, the man you dined with. You must remember that these are new names to me. I must know all these new people, I say. You don't mind?'
'You shall be presented to the whole multitude, as soon as you like. Peak wants to see you. He thinks of an excursion like this last of yours.'
'He does? By Jove, we'll go together! I have always wanted a travelling companion. We'll start as soon as ever he likes!--well, in a month or two. I must just have time to look round. Oh, I haven't done with the tropics yet! I must tell him of a rattling good insect-powder I have invented; I think of patenting it. I say, how does one get a patent? Quite a simple matter, I suppose?'
'Oh, always has been. The simplest and least worrying of all business enterprises.'
'What? Eh? That smile of yours means mischief.'
In a quarter of an hour they had got back to the subject of Peak's history.
'And did he really run away because of the eating-house?' Malkin inquired.
'I shall never venture to ask, and it's not very likely he will admit it. It was some time before he cared to talk much of Whitelaw.'
'But what is he doing? You used to think he would come out strong, didn't you? Has he written anything?'
'A few things in _The Liberator_, five or six years ago.'
'What, the atheistic paper?'
'Yes. But he's ashamed of it now. That belongs to a bygone stage of development.'
'Turned
