"Ah! who have we here?" exclaimed Griffin. His hair was thick and brown and his skin was fair. 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. “But why,” he said in the gasping voice of one subduing an agony, and looked at her from under a pain-wrinkled brow, “why did you not tell me this before?” “I didn’t know—I thought I might be able to control myself. Perhaps her odd beauty—and that too was natural—stirred these thoughts into being. “A man can smoke, a man can swear; A man scores always, everywhere.
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