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. They agreed to lend her their hold-all and a large, formless bag which they called the communal trunk. Her hair and voice and figure are as yours used to be. She had prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance. To go to him, to console him! But she stirred not from her hiding place.
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