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.