In a moment he handed the book to Marian, indicating the small type of a foot-note; it embodied an effusive eulogy--introduced a propos of some literary discussion--of 'Mr Alfred Yule's critical acumen, scholarly research, lucid style,' and sundry other distinguished merits.
'That is kind of him,' said Marian.
'Good old Hinks! I suppose I must try to get him half-a-dozen readers.' 'May I see ?' asked Mrs Yule, under her breath, bending to Marian.
Her daughter passed on the volume, and Mrs Yule read the footnote with that look of slow apprehension which is so pathetic when it signifies the heart's good-will thwarted by the mind's defect.
'That'll be good for you, Alfred, won't it ?' she said, glancing at her husband.
'Certainly,' he replied, with a smile of contemptuous irony.

'If Hinks goes on, he'll establish my reputation.' And he took a draught of ale, like one who is reinvigorated for the battle of life.

Marian, regarding him askance, mused on what seemed to her a strange anomaly in his character; it had often surprised her that a man of his temperament and powers should be so dependent upon the praise and blame of people whom he justly deemed his inferiors.
Yule was glancing over the pages of the work.
'A pity the man can't write English.' What a vocabulary! Obstruent--reliable--particularization--fabulosity--different to--averse to--did one ever come across such a mixture of antique pedantry and modern vulgarism! Surely he has his name from the German hinken--eh, Marian ?' With a laugh he tossed the book away again.

His mood was wholly changed.
He gave various evidences of enjoying the meal, and began to talk freely with his daughter.
'Finished the authoresses ?' 'Not quite.' 'No hurry.

When you have time I want you to read Ditchley's new book, and jot down a selection of his worst sentences.