Here they remained till midnight when, calling for their reckoning and their steeds, they left the house. 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. After the dance, they went to a party. But I found it no laughing matter, I can assure you. Since Jack has left us, what does it matter whether he's pleased or not?" At this moment, a whistle was heard. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. A great bowl of scarlet carnations gleamed from a dark corner, set against the background of a deep brown wall. “Call me Cathy, John.
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