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. "England or France, London or Paris, it's all one to me, so I've you to command me. He tries hard to conceal it, but he cannot. . "Why came she here?" "She could not resist the hand of fate which drew her hither," replied Sir Cecil, mournfully. Something about the girl had suggested an idea. Mrs. Remote little Ann Veronica! She would never know the heart of that child again! That child had loved fairy princes with velvet suits and golden locks, and she was in love with a real man named Capes, with little gleams of gold on his cheek and a pleasant voice and firm and shapely hands. But did any woman get anything better from a man? Perhaps every woman conceals herself from a man perforce!.
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