” “Of course,” he said, reaching out his hand tentatively for his hat, “I could go away even now. CHAPTER XVII. 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. "Why does she weep?" Ruth wanted to know. ‘You don’t mind if I sit down?’ She considered him a moment, her head a little on one side.
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