 a certain point. We should have behaved as if there were nothing
that called for explanation. But what are we to do now?«
    Like her multitudinous kind, Mrs Yule lived only in the opinions of other
people. What others would say was her ceaseless preoccupation. She had never
conceived of life as something proper to the individual; independence in the
directing of one's course seemed to her only possible in the case of very
eccentric persons, or of such as were altogether out of society. Amy had
advanced, intellectually, far beyond this standpoint, but lack of courage
disabled her from acting upon her convictions.
    »People must know the truth, I suppose,« she answered dispiritedly.
    Now, confession of the truth was the last thing that would occur to Mrs Yule
when social relations were concerned. Her whole existence was based on bold
denial of actualities. And, as is natural in such persons, she had the ostrich
instinct strongly developed; though very acute in the discovery of her friends'
shams and lies, she deceived herself ludicrously in the matter of concealing her
own embarrassments.
    »But the fact is, my dear,« she answered, »we don't know the truth
ourselves. You had better let yourself be directed by me. It will be better, at
first, if you see as few people as possible. I suppose you must say something or
other to two or three of your own friends; if you take my advice you'll be
rather mysterious. Let them think what they like; anything is better than to say
plainly: My husband can't support me, and he has gone to work as a clerk for
weekly wages. Be mysterious, darling; depend upon it, that's the safest.«
    The conversation was pursued, with brief intervals, all through the day. In
the afternoon two ladies paid a call, but Amy kept out of sight. Between six and
seven John Yule returned from his gentlemanly occupations. As he was generally
in a touchy temper before dinner had soothed him, nothing was said to him of the
latest developments of his sister's affairs until late in the evening; he was
allowed to suppose that Reardon's departure for the seaside had taken place a
day sooner than had been arranged.
    Behind the dining-room was a comfortable little chamber set apart as John's
sanctum; here he smoked and entertained his male friends, and contemplated the
portraits of those female ones who would not have been altogether at their ease
in Mrs Yule's drawing-room. Not long after
