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. “Glaciers?” she said. At the least, the tales had the ability to make her forget where she was; which was something in their favour. She was furiously angry. ‘And you come to me, thinking yourself half French, and expect me to take you in. “Delusion!” “You can call it what you like,” she said.
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