Now, however, as Gerald watched them, their heads were together and they were murmuring in French. Let us be gone. With your permission, I will go on in my own way. "Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. "You will never leave me," sobbed the poor woman, straining him to her breast. 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.
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