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As she started, rearing up her head, a hand stole about her mouth and closed down hard. 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. They had got all this down already—they heard the substance of it now for the fourteenth time. “And of course you are my niece just as Annabel is, although I am sorry to learn that your conduct has been much less discreet than hers. You don’t happen to know of any one, I suppose, who wants a nursery governess, or a clerk—without shorthand—or a tryer-on, or a copyist, or——” “For Heaven’s sake stop, Miss Pellissier,” he interrupted. He had fallen off when trying to tie down his aluminum paint ladder.
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