It happened commonly enough that dinner passed without a word of conversation, and that seemed likely to be the case this evening.
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.
'I don't credit Rackett with enough good sense for such a proposal,' he said deliberately.