The day after this, when Yule came home about the hour of dinner, he called Marian’s name from within the study. Marian had not left the house to-day; her work had been set, in the shape of a long task of copying from disorderly manuscript. She left the sitting-room in obedience to her father’s summons.
‘Here’s something that will afford you amusement,’ he said, holding to her the new number of The Current, and indicating the notice of his book.
She read a few lines, then threw the thing on to the table.
‘That kind of writing sickens me,’ she exclaimed, with anger in her eyes. ‘Only base and heartless people can write in that way. You surely won’t let it trouble you?’
‘Oh, not for a moment,’ her father answered, with exaggerated show of calm. ‘But I am surprised that you don’t see the literary merit of the work. I thought it would distinctly appeal to you.’
There was a strangeness in his voice, as well as in the words, which caused her to look at him inquiringly. She knew him well enough to understand that such a notice would irritate him profoundly; but why should he go out of his way to show it her, and with this peculiar acerbity of manner?
‘Why do you say that, father?’
‘It doesn’t occur to you who may probably have written it?’
She could not miss his meaning; astonishment held her mute for a moment, then she said:
‘Surely Mr Fadge wrote it himself?’