She pulled down her veil and made her way to the door. 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. It was below consciousness, elusive; so he sent out a call to his friend, defensively. ‘Alors, I see how is this. And the situation it makes!—the situation!” Thus Manning, egotistical, inconsecutive, unreal. She too at once developed an anxious interest in the street outside.
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