Russell trouble, a good lot of trouble. Well, I am Nigel Ennison’s sister!” “Oh!” Anna said. 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 what if she were to marry? He glanced towards the elderly dame and found her watching him, the dimple very much in evidence. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience.
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