a little apart.

'Marian, I have been thinking about that letter to your father. I had
better get it written, don't you think?'

She gazed at him with troubled eyes.

'Perhaps you had. Though we said it might be delayed until--'

'Yes, I know. But I suspect you had rather I didn't wait any longer.
Isn't that the truth?'

'Partly. Do just as you wish, Jasper.'

'I'll go and see him, if you like.'

'I am so afraid--No, writing will be better.'

'Very well. Then he shall have the letter to-morrow afternoon.'

'Don't let it come before the last post. I had so much rather not.
Manage it, if you can.'

'Very well. Now go and say good-night to the girls. It's a vile night,
and you must get home as soon as possible.'

She turned away, but again came towards him, murmuring:

'Just a word or two more.'

'About the letter?'

'No. You haven't said--'

He laughed.

'And you couldn't go away contentedly unless I repeated for the
hundredth time that I love you?'

Marian searched his countenance.

'Do you think it foolish? I live only on those words.'

'Well, they are better than pea-nuts.'

'Oh don't! I can't bear to--'

Jasper was unable to understand that such a jest sounded to her like
profanity. She hid her face against him, and whispered the words that
would have enraptured her had they but come from his lips. The young man
found it pleasant enough to be worshipped, but he could not reply as
she desired. A few phrases of tenderness, and his love-vocabulary
was exhausted; he even grew weary when something more--the indefinite
something--was vaguely required of him.

'You are a dear, good, tender-hearted girl,' he said, stroking her
short, soft hair, which was exquisite to the hand. 'Now go and get
ready.'

She left him, but stood for a few moments on the landing before going to
the girls' room.

CHAPTER XXIX. CATASTROPHE

Marian had finished the rough draft of a paper on James Harrington,
author of 'Oceana.' Her father went through it by the midnight lamp,
and the next morning made his comments. A black sky and sooty rain
strengthened his inclination to sit by the study fire and talk at large
in a tone of flattering benignity.

'Those paragraphs on the Rota Club strike me as singularly happy,' he
said, tapping the manuscript with the mouthpiece of his pipe. 'Perhaps
you might say a word or two more about Cyriac Skinner; one mustn't be
too allusive with general readers, their ignorance is inc