She ought to have written at once and told him exactly what had happened. "I have not told you half. She moaned as she touched him. 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. “You, too,” he said abruptly. “Reuben, come here. He contrasted the lot of women in general with the lot of men, presented men as patient, self-immolating martyrs, and women as the pampered favorites of Nature. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. And she would have rushed to him, if she had not been forcibly withheld by her son. “Here we are, living in the same suburb,” he began.
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