He went over his interview with her again, their conversation at dinner-time. His two wives have been here. No doubt he knew enough of his world to recognise that he stood little chance against the word of a major of militia. So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. “You wish me to stay?” he asked, in a low tone. But she did not listen long; she wanted to talk. But at least it gave her more time. 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.
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