She knew that her voice was superior to Annabel’s, and she had no further qualms. Who invented them? Nobody knows. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. 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. " "Whom do you mean?" demanded Jackson. The warm September sun fell strongly on this part of the grounds, uninterrupted by trees, its light bouncing off the glass in the mansion’s walls. Kneebone was attired in the extremity of the mode. ‘Your mystery lady, I mean.
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