“Yes,” she said at last, “it is firm and affectionate. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. After Capes had finished the Scotchman’s troubles he went back into the preparation-room. Lucy looked down, noticing that Michelle had left her shoes in the entryway. He did not play golf, but took his exercise on horseback, which was also unsympathetic. 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.
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