He would have to sit down here in Canton and wait, perhaps for weeks. She became angry with herself. 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. His demeanour then was sober enough to lend colour to that belief. ’ ‘Then do it,’ Melusine said with impatience. She almost laughed, but repressed her smile lest it seem cruel. When she tried to speak she found it difficult.
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