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Marcella did not change her position, but at the sound of Peak’s name she stirred, as if with an intention, at once checked, of bending eagerly forward. ‘In America?’ she asked, incredulously. ‘At Boston. He met him in the street—or thinks he did. There’s a doubt. When Malkin spoke to the man, he declared that he was not Peak at all—said there was a mistake.’ Marcella moved so as to show her face; endeavouring to express an unemotional interest, she looked coldly scornful. ‘That ridiculous man can’t be depended upon,’ she said. There had been one meeting between Marcella and Mr. Malkin, with the result that each thoroughly disliked the other—an antipathy which could have been foreseen. ‘Well, there’s no saying,’ replied Christian. ‘But of one thing I feel pretty sure: we have seen the last of Peak. He’ll never come back to us.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘I can only say that I feel convinced he has broken finally with all his old friends.—We must think no more of him, Marcella.’ His sister rose slowly, affected to glance at a book, and in a few moments said good-night. For another hour Christian sat by himself in gloomy thought. At breakfast next morning Marcella announced that she would be from home the whole day; she might return in time for dinner, but it was uncertain.