"That's it!" cried Wild when Trenchard concluded. 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. The season was ripe for mating, she thought to herself bitterly. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. Ann Veronica said nothing.
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