His study--the only room on the ground level except the dining-room--was small, and even a good deal of the floor was encumbered with books, but he found space for walking nervously hither and thither.
He was doing this when, about half-past nine, his wife appeared at the door, bringing him a cup of coffee and some biscuits, his wonted supper.
Marian generally waited upon him at this time, and he asked why she had not come.
'She has one of her headaches again, I'm sorry to say,' Mrs Yule replied.

'I persuaded her to go to bed early.' Having placed the tray upon the table--books had to be pushed aside--she did not seem disposed to withdraw.
'Are you busy, Alfred ?' 'Why ?' 'I thought I should like just to speak of something.' She was using the opportunity of his good humour.

Yule spoke to her with the usual carelessness, but not forbiddingly.
'What is it?
Those Holloway people, I'll warrant.' 'No, no! It's about Marian.

She had a letter from one of those young ladies this afternoon.' 'What young ladies ?' asked Yule, with impatience of this circuitous approach.
'The Miss Milvains.' 'Well, there's no harm that I know of.

They're decent people.' 'Yes; so you told me.