Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. 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. I wonder how it is,” she added, “that boys always make love so impertinently. "With your friends, dear Mrs. Part 8 “Why should I ever come back?” she said to herself, as she went down the staircase.
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