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. He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket. ‘Dear me. No, not one little bit. We just want to ask her a few questions about an old murder case. His name is carved upon a beam up stairs. But first, we’ve got to secure the convent. She slipped past the servants, her soft roe-skin shoes unheard on the old stone. I do not know. They are our food, Lucia, nothing more. She put a stool for him at a little distance from her own, and after he had seen the day’s work he hesitated, and then plunged into a resumption of their discussion about beauty.
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