It was a letter. 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. "That is easily explained. It is not you who runs the risk of going dinnerless to-morrow. The thing is, Miss Charvill —’ ‘He told you my name?’ cut in Melusine, surprised. “I am just back from Paris. Mr. "In the hall," replied Charcam. ’ Melusine stared.
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