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 did her best to do this. Alcohol— would you believe it?—steadies his nerves and keens his brain: which is against the laws of gravitation, you might say. ‘But you cannot expect that we will any of us remain altogether quiet,’ objected Melusine.
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