Lord, what a state I was in! Night after night I sat there, I watched her come in, I watched her go. Mr. “I can’t endure it,” she said. The splendid voices sang on from phase to phase of love’s unfolding, the ship drove across the sea to the beating rhythm of the rowers. I guess they were bad all the time. 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. Don't worry about me. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow. Capes—the ‘Capes crave,’ they would call it in America.
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