She pulled her veil down, and he knew that silence was best. “Annabel,” she said brusquely. 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. But, in spite of her attractions, we shall address ourselves to the younger, and more interesting couple. Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda.
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