She guessed Jack was having trouble finding the right piece of carving. It’s kind of the World War II thing. Martin came to the door, looking radiant and relieved. Whatever he did, she was bound to scream. 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. Over the sea of heads arose a black and dismal object. Presently McClintock came in. I have made up my mind to insist upon moving from here into Park Lane, or one of the Squares. “It’s the spring,” he said. He seemed like a very intelligent doctor and not at all like a snooty archbishop.
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