htfully, gently; she had
linked her fingers, and laid her hands, palms downwards, upon her lap--a
nervous action. Her accent was pure, unpretentious; and she used none of
the fashionable turns of speech which would have suggested the habit of
intercourse with distinctly metropolitan society.

'You must wonder how we exist in this out-of-the-way place,' remarked
Maud.

'Rather, I envy you,' Marian answered, with a slight emphasis.

The door opened, and Alfred Yule presented himself. He was tall, and his
head seemed a disproportionate culmination to his meagre body, it was so
large and massively featured. Intellect and uncertainty of temper were
equally marked upon his visage; his brows were knitted in a permanent
expression of severity. He had thin, smooth hair, grizzled whiskers, a
shaven chin. In the multitudinous wrinkles of his face lay a history of
laborious and stormy life; one readily divined in him a struggling and
embittered man. Though he looked older than his years, he had by no
means the appearance of being beyond the ripeness of his mental vigour.

'It pleases me to meet you, Mr Milvain,' he said, as he stretched out
his bony hand. 'Your name reminds me of a paper in The Wayside a month
or two ago, which you will perhaps allow a veteran to say was not ill
done.'

'I am grateful to you for noticing it,' replied Jasper.

There was positively a touch of visible warmth upon his cheek. The
allusion had come so unexpectedly that it caused him keen pleasure.

Mr Yule seated himself awkwardly, crossed his legs, and began to stroke
the back of his left hand, which lay on his knee. He seemed to have
nothing more to say at present, and allowed Miss Harrow and the girls to
support conversation. Jasper listened with a smile for a minute or two,
then he addressed the veteran.'Have you seen The Study this week, Mr
Yule?'

'Yes.'

'Did you notice that it contains a very favourable review of a novel
which was tremendously abused in the same columns three weeks ago?'

Mr Yule started, but Jasper could perceive at once that his emotion was
not disagreeable.

'You don't say so.'

'Yes. The novel is Miss Hawk's "On the Boards." How will the editor get
out of this?'

'H'm! Of course Mr Fadge is not immediately responsible; but it'll be
unpleasant for him, decidedly unpleasant.' He smiled grimly. 'You hear
this, Marian?'

'How is it explained, father?'

'May be accident, of course; but--well, there's no knowing