His countenance was almost as white and rigid as that of the corpse by his side. 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. “The man alone could supply any, and if he recovers sufficiently to say anything, what he would say would exonerate you. Sheila wouldn’t allow me to date a boy even if he was only fifteen—I mean sixteen, like I am, you see.
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