" "Six weeks!" exclaimed Thames, in a melancholy tone. F. 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. “Idiotic, isn’t it?” “Absolutely,” she agreed coldly. She was trying to bring her problems to a head, and her mind insisted upon being even more discursive and atmospheric than usual. But all those empty years!… My heart was hot.
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