They trudged along a little hungry, because of the fruitarian refreshments, and mentally very active. Taking hold of the hilt of his own foil, he drew it forth. We went our ways. “And now,” said Ann Veronica surveying her apartment with an unprecedented sense of proprietorship, “what is the next step?” She spent the evening in writing—it was a little difficult—to her father and— which was easier—to the Widgetts. 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. To-night she could have hugged both the old maids. It’s one of our conventional superstitions. She was unusually helpful at breakfast, and unselfish about the eggs: and then she went off to catch the train before her father’s.
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