“Do you think he’s still around?” She paused thoughtfully. She had nothing to say for herself. This lady was singularly lucky in her matrimonial connections. 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. "We may trust him," he added in a whisper; "he is a staunch friend of the good cause.
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