. “I never saw Courtlaw with her—never heard her speak of him. But, what brought you here?" "Excuse me, Sir Rowland. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. 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. Before she put on her sun-helmet, she paused before the mirror.
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