scenes; on one occasion - since Amy's marriage - he had involuntarily
overheard a dialogue between his mother and a servant on the point of departing
which made even him feel ashamed. But from Amy every paltriness and meanness had
always been concealed with the utmost care; Mrs Yule did not scruple to lie
heroically when in danger of being detected by her daughter.
    Yet this energetic lady had no social ambitions that pointed above her own
stratum. She did not aim at intimacy with her superiors; merely at superiority
among her intimates. Her circle was not large, but in that circle she must be
regarded with the respect due to a woman of refined tastes and personal
distinction. Her little dinners might be of rare occurrence, but to be invited
must be felt a privilege Mrs Edmund Yule must sound well on people's lips; never
be the occasion of those peculiar smiles which she herself was rather fond of
indulging at the mention of other people's names.
    The question of Amy's marriage had been her constant thought from the time
when the little girl shot into a woman grown. For Amy no common match, no
acceptance of a husband merely for money or position. Few men who walked the
earth were mates for Amy. But years went on, and the man of undeniable
distinction did not yet present himself. Suitors offered, but Amy smiled coldly
at their addresses, in private not seldom scornfully, and her mother, though
growing anxious, approved. Then of a sudden appeared Edwin Reardon.
    A literary man? Well, it was one mode of distinction. Happily, a novelist;
novelists now and then had considerable social success. Mr Reardon, it was true,
did not impress one as a man likely to push forward where the battle called for
rude vigour, but Amy soon assured herself that he would have a reputation far
other than that of the average successful story-teller. The best people would
regard him; he would be welcomed in the penetralia of culture; superior persons
would say: »Oh, I don't read novels as a rule, but of course Mr Reardon's -« If
that really were to be the case, all was well; for Mrs Yule could appreciate
social and intellectual differences.
    Alas! alas! What was the end of those shining anticipations?
    First of all, Mrs Yule began to make less frequent mention of »my
son-in-law, Mr Edwin Reardon.« Next, she never uttered his name save when
inquiries necessitated it. Then, the most intimate of her intimates received
little hints which were not