this subject, but she could not bring herself to ask directly.

'I'm sure I don't know,' replied Mrs Yule, smoothing her dress.
'He hasn't said anything to me, Marian.'

An awkward silence. The mother had fixed her eyes on the
mantelpiece, and was thinking hard.

'Otherwise,' said Marian, 'he would have said something, I should
think, about meeting in London.'

'But is there anything in--this gentleman that he wouldn't like?'

'I don't know of anything.'

Impossible to pursue the dialogue; Marian moved uneasily, then
rose, said something about putting the letter away, and left the
room.

Shortly after, Alfred Yule entered the house. It was no uncommon
thing for him to come home in a mood of silent moroseness, and
this evening the first glimpse of his face was sufficient
warning. He entered the dining-room and stood on the hearthrug
reading an evening paper. His wife made a pretence of
straightening things upon the table.

'Well?' he exclaimed irritably. 'It's after five; why isn't
dinner served?'

'It's just coming, Alfred.'