Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. Yet you make our Bohemianism seem like a vulgar thing. To have written a short story in a week was rather a remarkable feat. ‘Soi-disant? Then he is not Valade?’ ‘How can I know?’ she countered crossly. 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. And yet, Spurlock was afraid of the doctor; so was Ruth. Through yet another doorway she observed an ancient silk brocade loom. ” “I’ll wait, then.
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