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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. Ah Coom. His hug became an embrace. White. He recalled with exasperating perplexity her clear, matter-of-fact tone as she talked about love-making being unconvincing. He daren't quarrel with me: and if he does, let him look to himself.
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