of conversation, and that seemed likely to be the
case this evening.

To his wife Yule seldom addressed anything but a curt inquiry or caustic
comment; if he spoke humanly at table it was to Marian.

Ten minutes passed; then Marian resolved to try any means of clearing
the atmosphere.

'Mr Quarmby gave me a message for you,' she said. 'A friend of his,
Nathaniel Walker, has told him that Mr Rackett will very likely offer
you the editorship of The Study.'

Yule stopped in the act of mastication. He fixed his eyes intently on
the sirloin for half a minute; then, by way of the beer-jug and the
salt-cellar, turned them upon Marian's face.

'Walker told him that? Pooh!'

'It was a great secret. I wasn't to breathe a word to any one but you.'

'Walker's a fool and Quarmby's an ass,' remarked her father.

But there was a tremulousness in his bushy eyebrows; his forehead half
unwreathed itself; he continued to eat more slowly, and as if with
appreciation of the viands.

'What did he say? Repeat it to me in his words.'

Marian did so, as nearly as possible. He listened with a scoffing
expression, but still his features relaxed.

'I don't credit Rackett with enough good sense for such a proposal,' he
said deliberately. 'And I'm not very sure that I should accept it if it
were made. That fellow Fadge has all but ruined the paper. It will
amuse me to see how long it takes him to make Culpepper's new magazine a
distinct failure.'

A silence of five minutes ensued; then Yule said of a sudden.

'Where is Hinks's book?'

Marian reached it from a side table; under this roof, literature was
regarded almost as a necessary part of table garnishing.

'I thought it would be bigger than this,' Yule muttered, as he opened
the volume in a way peculiar to bookish men.

A page was turned down, as if to draw attention to some passage. Yule
put on his eyeglasses, and soon made a discovery which had the effect of
completing the transformation of his visage. His eyes glinted, his chin
worked in pleasurable emotion. In a moment he handed the book to Marian,
indicating the small type of a foot-note; it embodied an effusive
eulogy--introduced a propos of some literary discussion--of 'Mr Alfred
Yule's critical acumen, scholarly research, lucid style,' and sundry
other distinguished merits.

'That is kind of him,' said Marian.

'Good old Hinks! I suppose I must try to get him half-a-dozen readers.'

'May I see?' asked Mrs Yule, und