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She sensed his acute frustration as he unzipped her raincoat while trying to kiss her. 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. And empty. “And by what right do you do anything of the sort?” “No right at all,” he admitted. Miss Garvice repeated again, and almost in the same words she used at every discussion, her contribution to the great question. There was first the Avenue, which ran in a consciously elegant curve from the railway station into an undeveloped wilderness of agriculture, with big, yellow brick villas on either side, and then there was the pavement, the little clump of shops about the postoffice, and under the railway arch was a congestion of workmen’s dwellings.
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