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.
Mrs Yule was in an anguish of nervousness.
'What is it, dear ?' she asked of Marian, in a pleading whisper.

'Oh, don't quarrel with your father! Don't!' 'I can't be a slave, mother, and I can't be treated unjustly.' 'What is it?
Let me go and speak to him.' 'It's no use.

We CAN'T live in terror.' For Mrs Yule this was unimaginable disaster.