rybody knew him and talked of him. How has it been with
me? I live here like an animal in its hole, and go blinking about if
by chance I find myself among the people with whom I ought naturally to
associate. If I had been able to come in direct contact with Rackett and
other men of that kind, to dine with them, and have them to dine with
me, to belong to a club, and so on, I shouldn't be what I am at my age.
My one opportunity--when I edited The Balance--wasn't worth much; there
was no money behind the paper; we couldn't hold out long enough. But
even then, if I could have assumed my proper social standing, if I could
have opened my house freely to the right kind of people--How was it
possible?'

Marian could not raise her head. She recognised the portion of truth in
what he said, but it shocked her that he should allow himself to speak
thus. Her silence seemed to remind him how painful it must be to her to
hear these accusations of her mother, and with a sudden 'Good-night' he
dismissed her.

She went up to her room, and wept over the wretchedness of all their
lives. Her loneliness had seemed harder to bear than ever since that
last holiday. For a moment, in the lanes about Finden, there had come to
her a vision of joy such as fate owed her youth; but it had faded, and
she could no longer hope for its return. She was not a woman, but a mere
machine for reading and writing. Did her father never think of this? He
was not the only one to suffer from the circumstances in which poverty
had involved him.

She had no friends to whom she could utter her thoughts. Dora Milvain
had written a second time, and more recently had come a letter from
Maud; but in replying to them she could not give a true account of
herself. Impossible, to them. From what she wrote they would imagine her
contentedly busy, absorbed in the affairs of literature. To no one could
she make known the aching sadness of her heart, the dreariness of life
as it lay before her.

That beginning of half-confidence between her and her mother had led to
nothing. Mrs Yule found no second opportunity of speaking to her husband
about Jasper Milvain, and purposely she refrained from any further hint
or question to Marian. Everything must go on as hitherto.

The days darkened. Through November rains and fogs Marian went her usual
way to the Museum, and toiled there among the other toilers. Perhaps
once a week she allowed herself to stray about the alleys of the
Rea