When Sunday came, Yule inquired of his daughter if she had any engagement for the afternoon.

'Yes, I have,' she replied, with an effort to disguise her embarrassment.

'I'm sorry. I thought of asking you to come with me to Quarmby's. Shall you be away through the evening?'

'Till about nine o'clock, I think.'

He tried to dismiss the matter as if it were of no moment, but Marian saw the shadow that passed over his countenance. This was just after breakfast. For the remainder of the morning she did not meet him, and at the mid-day dinner he was silent, though he brought no book to the table with him, as he was wont to do when in his dark moods. Marian talked with her mother, doing her best to preserve the appearance of cheerfulness which was natural since the change in Yule's demeanour.

She chanced to meet her father in the passage just as she was going out. He smiled (it was more like a grin of pain) and nodded, but said nothing.

When the front door closed, he went into the parlour. Mrs Yule was reading, or, at all events, turning over a volume of an illustrated magazine.

'Where do you suppose she has gone?' he asked, in a voice which was only distant, not offensive.