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. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. His hand traveled below her loose neckline, and he cupped her round breast in his hand. Voilà tout, as Melusine herself would say. The immense disillusionment that awaited him! The devastating disillusionment! She had a vague desire to run after him, to state her case to him, to wring some understanding from him of what life was to her. It is not you who runs the risk of going dinnerless to-morrow.
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