It was a tall, meagre, dry-featured man, dressed with the painful
neatness of self-respecting poverty: the edges of his coat-
sleeves were carefully darned; his black necktie and a skull-cap
which covered his baldness were evidently of home manufacture. He
smiled softly and timidly with blue, rheumy eyes. Two or three
recent cuts on his chin and neck were the result of conscientious
shaving with an unsteady hand.

'I have been looking for your father,' he said, as Marian turned.
'Isn't he here?'

'He has gone, Mr Hinks.'

'Ah, then would you do me the kindness to take a book for him? In
fact, it's my little "Essay on the Historical Drama," just out.'

He spoke with nervous hesitation, and in a tone which seemed to
make apology for his existence.

'Oh, father will be very glad to have it.'

'If you will kindly wait one minute, Miss Yule. It's at my place
over there.'

He went off with long strides, and speedily came back panting, in
his hand a thin new volume.

'My kind regards to him, Miss Yule. You are quite well, I hope? I
won't detain you.'