Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. The young man had knocked over the siphon. Nor was this impression removed as he stole a glance at Mrs. She had never been able to discover where her father had hidden his shaving mirror. ‘Very clever, Mademoiselle Melusine. If it came at all, it was as fleeting as the girl's smile. 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.
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