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. Who could say that the two weren't in collusion? When a chap like Spurlock jumped the traces, cherchez la femme, every time. " "Very right, my love," said Wood, "very sensibly remarked. But I shall lose my wager if I stay a moment longer—so here goes. Melusine’s heart ached for him, but she had to force him on.
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