’ Obediently, Gerald rose and walked to the other end of the parlour. 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. Something in his smile, in the cynical suggestiveness of his deferential tone, maddened her. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. ‘I broke in. John eased off. Ruth returned to the table. Ennison,” she exclaimed, “is that really you?” There was no sign of embarrassment in her manner. “Mr. She controlled herself, and answered meekly, “No.
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