Then he rallied, smiling a little. 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. Her usual dignified reserve had availed her nothing. One night, she drew close to him in bed, trying to warm herself by embracing his back. “Only it is much too late for you to be out alone. I am safe while I am there, for I have had bolts fitted everywhere, and a pane of glass in the front door.
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