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 wish very much that you had written before leaving Paris. Battle, murder, and sudden death—and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it. A garrison called to arms at dead of night on the sudden approach of the enemy, could not have been more expeditiously, or effectually aroused. You are afraid—that here in London—I shall not be a success. You shall have room to develop, you shall live as you will, where you will, only give me the right to protect you, to free you from all these petty material cares. That’s the flat business situation. “But—your people!” she gasped.
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