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. Utter silence answered him. She pulled her veil down, and he knew that silence was best. Mind, I am anticipating events. “Is this true, Annabel? Is he dead?” She nodded. I suppose this is what she learns in her infernal London colleges.
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