‘Dieu du ciel, but answer me!’ Martha’s eyes were swimming again, and she reached out. Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea. 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. She decided that she would try to push whatever resolve he had in the car to see where it would lead. As I hope for mercy, I speak the truth!— let him deny it if he can. .
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