Do you think that I shall ever make an actress, my friend?” “I doubt it,” he answered bluntly. ‘Precisely. Clotilde flew into a rage, crying, “How dare you lay claim to my children! I am their mother! This is a Godless house!” She accused. But he reckoned without his host. 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. Instinctively she imitated this action, chilled and a little frightened at the expression of terror that confronted her. “Indeed,” she said, “it was very fortunate that I should have met you this afternoon.
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