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. Hanging on the wall was a temple censer, bronze, moulded in the shape of a lotus blossom with stem and leaves—deadly as a club. “But you yourself,” she exclaimed, glancing into his face, “you too look tired. At other times you seem so innocent that it breaks my heart, when you look at me like I’m your Prince Charming and you are depending on me to take you away to my castle in a world that doesn’t exist! I can take you away from this place. “They have all been trying to turn my head.
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