But he was now too deeply moved to trace a certain unsatisfactoriness to its source in a mixture of metaphors. He did not want Ruth to see his own stricken countenance; nor did he care to see hers, ravaged by tears. His face turned a dark crimson. 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. . Or had you not noticed?’ He sneered. The fellow is little better than a lunatic.
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