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. “You can’t imagine,” he said, “what a beastly thing a furtive love affair can be. "Woman, your wits are fled!" And so it seemed; for all the answer she could make was to murmur distractedly, "I can't find the key. Her soft brown eyes, inherited from Larry, warmed an already pretty face. "Do you not know me, father?" said the young man, advancing towards him, and warmly grasping his hand.
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