A result of this annoyance was to postpone conversation between mother and daughter on the subject of John Yule’s death until a late hour of the afternoon. Marian was at work in the study, or endeavouring to work, for her thoughts would not fix themselves on the matter in hand for many minutes together, and Mrs Yule came in with more than her customary diffidence.
‘Have you nearly done for to-day, dear?’
‘Enough for the present, I think.’
She laid down her pen, and leant back in the chair.
‘Marian, do you think your father will be rich?’
‘I have no idea, mother. I suppose we shall know very soon.’
Her tone was dreamy. She seemed to herself to be speaking of something which scarcely at all concerned her, of vague possibilities which did not affect her habits of thought.
‘If that happens,’ continued Mrs Yule, in a low tone of distress, ‘I don’t know what I shall do.’
Marian looked at her questioningly.
‘I can’t wish that it mayn’t happen,’ her mother went on; ‘I can’t, for his sake and for yours; but I don’t know what I shall do. He’d think me more in his way than ever. He’d wish to have a large house, and live in quite a different way; and how could I manage then? I couldn’t show myself; he’d be too much ashamed of me. I shouldn’t be in my place; even you’d feel ashamed of me.’