“You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. 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. Groups of boys took to ogling her as she walked frenetically from class to class. " "Oh! do not say so," replied his wretched parent.
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