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. "Where is my mother?" he added, regarding the knight with a searching glance. Lucy snatched it up and put it in her pack. Wood did think of it, and groaned aloud. But, alas! she was beautiful—and beauty is a crime not to be forgiven by a jealous woman.
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