It was the hateful spirit of literary rancour that ruled him; the spirit that made people eager to believe all evil, that blinded and maddened. Never had she felt so strongly the unworthiness of the existence to which she was condemned. That contemptible review, and now her father’s ignoble passion—such things were enough to make all literature appear a morbid excrescence upon human life.
Forgetful of the time, she sat in her bedroom until a knock at the door, and her mother’s voice, admonished her that dinner was waiting. An impulse all but caused her to say that she would rather not go down for the meal, that she wished to be left alone. But this would be weak peevishness. She just looked at the glass to see that her face bore no unwonted signs, and descended to take her place as usual.
Throughout the dinner there passed no word of conversation. Yule was at his blackest; he gobbled a few mouthfuls, then occupied himself with the evening paper. On rising, he said to Marian:
‘Have you copied the whole of that?’
The tone would have been uncivil if addressed to an impertinent servant.
‘Not much more than half,’ was the cold reply.
‘Can you finish it to-night?’
‘I’m afraid not. I am going out.’
‘Then I must do it myself’
And he went to the study.