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. The atmosphere seemed heavy with the odour of drugs. “You’re just a boy! You grow moody and spellbound, John, and the next moment you are ecstatic. You are marvelous!” Carolyn Diedermayer exclaimed. “Glaciers?” she said. Then came the cable that you were in Canton, ill, but not dangerously so.
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