And Mrs. Lucy stood relieved that she had not messed up the solo. Until that was done a certain experience of life assured him that a girl is a locked coldness against a man’s approach. 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. “Have either of you been out of this room since you discovered what had happened?” he asked. “I want a plain word with you about all this. Nothing is settled upon.
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