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. He tried this sentence with expletives. ‘Your mystery lady, I mean. . “A Socialist of the order of John Ruskin. ‘Sindlesham? But Gerald has gone out of town to visit that very person. Anna turned round with a start, which was almost of guilt, the poker still in her hand.
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