He smiled (it was more like a grin of pain) and
nodded, but said nothing.
When the front door closed, he went into the parlour. Mrs Yule
was reading, or, at all events, turning over a volume of an
illustrated magazine.
'Where do you suppose she has gone?' he asked, in a voice which
was only distant, not offensive.
'To the Miss Milvains, I believe,' Mrs Yule answered, looking
aside.
'Did she tell you so?'
'No. We don't talk about it.'
He seated himself on the corner of a chair and bent forward, his
chin in his hand.
'Has she said anything to you about the review?'
'Not a word.'
She glanced at him timidly, and turned a few pages of her book.
'I wanted her to come to Quarmby's, because there'll be a man
there who is anxious that Jedwood should start a magazine, and it
would be useful for her to hear practical opinions. There'd be no
harm if you just spoke to her about it now and then. Of course if
she has made up her mind to refuse me it's no use troubling
myself any more. I should think you might find out what's really
going on.'
Only dire stress of circumstances could have brought Alfred Yule
to make distinct appeal for his wife's help.
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