"I leave this bowl for you," he cried, returning it to the landlord untasted. 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. “Not at all. “You see,” he said, “you are like an inaccessible gold-mine in all this sort of matter. After the first courses however she scarcely noticed him.
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