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. “Now, Veronica,” he pleaded, “Veronica, this is most unreasonable. I knew it was only a matter of time before the boys started paying attention to you, Lucy. ” “That’s rather a fine sort of holiday!” He made no answer for three or four seconds.
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