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. Kneebone assured her that he did say so; and, as a further proof of his sincerity, squeezed her hand very warmly under the table. She brought the cups of cocoa back to the bedroom. The sea was no longer rolling brass; it was bluer than anything he had ever seen. When he said, “Let’s go and see the wart-hog,” she thought no one ever had had so quick a flow of good ideas as he; and when he explained that sugar and not buns was the talisman of popularity among the animals, she marvelled at his practical omniscience.
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