‘What is the matter?’ ‘Is there nothing you do not know?’ she asked faintly. He would have risen again, but for the significance of the action. She was conscious of a ceaseless undercurrent of sound—the guttural Chinese tongue. The note-passer lagged behind with her. “I cannot reason with you,” he said at last wearily. You’re such a strange girl. She glanced at the Frenchman, and found him struggling with the portrait that was embedded around his scalp. 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. Her hair once more was arranged with its old simplicity.
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