Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. Small blame to her. ‘How do you know?’ ‘Exactly,’ pounced Roding bitterly. There was a lock, apparently more than a foot wide, strongly plated, and girded to the door with thick iron hoops. Hadn’t the stomach to admit the truth, had he? I’ll lay any money he labelled you with some foul French name as well. His ideas about girls and women were of a sentimental and modest quality; they were creatures, he thought, either too bad for a modern vocabulary, and then frequently most undesirably desirable, or too pure and good for life. But here she met with a check. ” “Of course you’re converted?” she said. Still, my tutor was a highly educated scholar—my father.
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