But now it was all over, and Alice was getting on well. 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. She worried for her father in Mantua, 28 hoping that he was still alive. Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. The passion of pent-up speech compelled action of some sort. “Until you marry, Vee,” said Hetty. The girl is in it as deeply as he is. My servant. I have been imaging—” “Mr.
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