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. For fifteen years!—so long as I can remember! All I wanted was a little love, a caress now and then. They are not bad girls, but the average tourist has that misconception of them. And severely hurt that pig, which was a very good thing. The Jacobite daws want a scarecrow.
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