He opened the door of still another room, in one corner of which was a grand piano. In the beginning Ah Cum would run his glance speculatively over the assortment and select that individual who promised to be the most companionable. 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. There was no broken faith—not even any question of anything of the sort. Any one very badly moved choked down a few mouthfuls; the symptom of supreme distress was not to be able to touch a bit. They’re too free for their innocence or too innocent for their freedom.
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