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 do hope that I shall be able to make it up to you. “Dare!” she said. They had completed a circuit of the mansion before Roding’s frustration burst out. At the present moment she was living in a world of her own creation, a carnival of brave men and fair women, characters out of the tales she had so newly read for the first time. “I didn’t know you objected to him, daddy.
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