“Have to take your turn,” he remarked laconically. "Facts convince the most incredulous," answered Jonathan, drily. 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. Usually his charges bored him with their interrogative chatter, for he knew that his information more often than not went into one ear and out of the other. "And the Marchioness is your daughter," added Thames. “A ballot-box, you know,” he said, “is very largely just a box. Wood.
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