More than ever a sense of confusion was upon Ennison. 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. She went from period to period exactly as she would have read prose; so that sense and music were equally balanced. A faint gleam of returning colour gave her at once a more natural appearance. "She is here," cried Jack, darting forward. She felt very awkward as she stared at 103 the top of his ashen hair. A maidservant held the front door open.
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