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. And there was that dress of hers! She must be warned that she had been imposed upon. She decided that she would try to push whatever resolve he had in the car to see where it would lead. "I'll see. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. ‘And so also have I. " And he struck up the following ballad:— SAINT GILES'S BOWL. ‘Always he is busy about my affairs.
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