” “There is great deal more,” she answered coldly. She had viewed them askance, and without exchanging ideas with any one else in the world about them. 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. "Good Lord!—cannibals?" "Aye. I am very, very sorry, but you must listen to me. The last piece was Scheherazade. I was perfectly satisfied with your appearance.
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