‘It’s not likely that he even knows the address.’
‘Your father won’t be seeing him, I suppose?’
‘By chance, perhaps. I don’t know.’
It was very rare indeed for these two to touch upon any subject save those of everyday interest. In spite of the affection between them, their exchange of confidence did not go very far; Mrs Yule, who had never exercised maternal authority since Marian’s earliest childhood, claimed no maternal privileges, and Marian’s natural reserve had been strengthened by her mother’s respectful aloofness. The English fault of domestic reticence could scarcely go further than it did in their case; its exaggeration is, of course, one of the characteristics of those unhappy families severed by differences of education between the old and young.
‘I think,’ said Marian, in a forced tone, ‘that father hasn’t much liking for Mr Milvain.’
She wished to know if her mother had heard any private remarks on this subject, but she could not bring herself to ask directly.
‘I’m sure I don’t know,’ replied Mrs Yule, smoothing her dress. ‘He hasn’t said anything to me, Marian.’
An awkward silence. The mother had fixed her eyes on the mantelpiece, and was thinking hard.
‘Otherwise,’ said Marian, ‘he would have said something, I should think, about meeting in London.’
‘But is there anything in—this gentleman that he wouldn’t like?’