, but his mood would not
allow him to speak ingenuously, and he wished to note the effect upon
Marian of what he said. There were two beliefs in him: on the one hand,
he recognised Fadge in every line of the writing; on the other, he had a
perverse satisfaction in convincing himself that it was Milvain who had
caught so successfully the master's manner. He was not the kind of man
who can resist an opportunity of justifying, to himself and others, a
course into which he has been led by mingled feelings, all more or less
unjustifiable.

'How should Jedwood know?' asked Marian.

Yule shrugged his shoulders.

'As if these things didn't get about among editors and publishers!'

'In this case, there's a mistake.'

'And why, pray?' His voice trembled with choler. 'Why need there be a
mistake?'

'Because Mr Milvain is quite incapable of reviewing your book in such a
spirit.'

'There is your mistake, my girl. Milvain will do anything that's asked
of him, provided he's well enough paid.'

Marian reflected. When she raised her eyes again they were perfectly
calm.

'What has led you to think that?'

'Don't I know the type of man? Noscitur ex sociis--have you Latin enough
for that?'

'You'll find that you are misinformed,' Marian replied, and therewith
went from the room.

She could not trust herself to converse longer. A resentment such as her
father had never yet excited in her--such, indeed, as she had seldom, if
ever, conceived--threatened to force utterance for itself in words which
would change the current of her whole life. She saw her father in his
worst aspect, and her heart was shaken by an unnatural revolt from him.
Let his assurance of what he reported be ever so firm, what right had
he to make this use of it? His behaviour was spiteful. Suppose he
entertained suspicions which seemed to make it his duty to warn her
against Milvain, this was not the way to go about it. A father actuated
by simple motives of affection would never speak and look thus.

It was the hateful spirit of literary rancour that ruled him; the spirit
that made people eager to believe all evil, that blinded and maddened.
Never had she felt so strongly the unworthiness of the existence to
which she was condemned. That contemptible review, and now her father's
ignoble passion--such things were enough to make all literature appear a
morbid excrescence upon human life.

Forgetful of the time, she sat in her bedroom until a knock at the