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. “I wonder which of us enjoys that most,” said Capes—“does he, or do we?” “He seems to get a zest—” “He does it and forgets it. ” “The real, identical other,” said Capes, and took and bit the tip of her little finger. Mr. He laughed once or twice at himself as he paced backwards and forwards. If I did not love you en désespoir, I would assuredly blow off your head.
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