"What's this here kinchen in for?" asked Terence, as he and Quilt strode along, with Thames between them. 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. But when they were on their way out he whispered in Anna’s ear. Here and there, a rectangular patch, darker than the rest, showed that some had been removed.
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