I do not say guest because that suggests friendship; and I am no friend of this Wastrel. Capes bore a face of infinite perplexity. 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. “I”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you. “Yeah, where the hell were you? My friends would have driven you home when I came home if I could have found you. After all there are other things. I'll bet you haven't given her a bucket of paint in three years. I'll cable to-night, and in a few days we'll have some news.
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