think fit.'

'I shall go on with the Harrington notes.'

'As you please. I don't know what mourning it would be decent for you to
wear; you must consult with your mother about that. That is all I wished
to say.'

His tone was dismissal. Marian had a struggle with herself but she could
find nothing to reply to his cold phrases. And an hour or two afterwards
Yule left the house without leave-taking.

Soon after his departure there was a visitor's rat-tat at the door;
it heralded Mrs Goby. In the interview which then took place Marian
assisted her mother to bear the vigorous onslaughts of the haberdasher's
wife. For more than two hours Mrs Goby related her grievances, against
the fugitive servant, against Mrs Yule, against Mr Yule; meeting with no
irritating opposition, she was able in this space of time to cool down
to the temperature of normal intercourse, and when she went forth from
the house again it was in a mood of dignified displeasure which she felt
to be some recompense for the injuries of yesterday.

A result of this annoyance was to postpone conversation between mother
and daughter on the subject of John Yule's death until a late hour of
the afternoon. Marian was at work in the study, or endeavouring to work,
for her thoughts would not fix themselves on the matter in hand for
many minutes together, and Mrs Yule came in with more than her customary
diffidence.

'Have you nearly done for to-day, dear?'

'Enough for the present, I think.'

She laid down her pen, and leant back in the chair.

'Marian, do you think your father will be rich?'

'I have no idea, mother. I suppose we shall know very soon.'

Her tone was dreamy. She seemed to herself to be speaking of something
which scarcely at all concerned her, of vague possibilities which did
not affect her habits of thought.

'If that happens,' continued Mrs Yule, in a low tone of distress, 'I
don't know what I shall do.'

Marian looked at her questioningly.

'I can't wish that it mayn't happen,' her mother went on; 'I can't, for
his sake and for yours; but I don't know what I shall do. He'd think me
more in his way than ever. He'd wish to have a large house, and live
in quite a different way; and how could I manage then? I couldn't show
myself; he'd be too much ashamed of me. I shouldn't be in my place; even
you'd feel ashamed of me.'

'You mustn't say that, mother. I have never given you cause to think
that.'

'No, my dear, you haven't; but it