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. “Don’t we all rather humbug about the coarseness? All we women, I mean,” said she. More than this, it would serve to mitigate her own abysmal loneliness to pool it temporarily with his. —Providence, I mean—HAS arranged it so that men will keep you, more or less. I just never had anything else fun to do. You remember that you saw us at the Savoy a few evenings ago?” “Yes. .
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