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. "Pah! He's a fool. Anna, who was disposed to be sharply critical, could find no fault with it. I expect you had been snubbing him terribly. I had dreamt of the olive grove beyond the courtyard I had once been fascinated 198 with as a boy. ‘But we—mon mari and myself—we have the bonne chance.
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