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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. Anna looked at her curiously, and with sinking heart. " "Not in the least, Sir," replied Tom, in a drowsy tone, and with a look seeming to imply that he was too much accustomed to odd noises at night to heed them. It was partly to pay a grudge he had against father. So that the thought of Ann Veronica up-stairs had been extremely painful for her through all the silent dinner-time that night.
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