But, if I were in your place, I know what I'd do—" "What—what would you do?" asked Hogarth, eagerly. "May I beg to know whom I've the pleasure of adressing? Jackson, I conclude, is merely an assumed name. 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. It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended. Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,” and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding. ‘I do not mind to pray, no.
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