Here was the place behind the shed where she had used to hide from Roddy’s persecutions, and here the border of herbaceous perennials under whose stems was fairyland. "Miss Thornhill's a charming girl. “I should like you to come here,” she said. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. You say that this gentleman was with you?” “I was,” Brendon answered, “most providentially. Only promise me this. She went to the basement and shed her sodden coat and scarf, tossing them into her favorite modern appliance, the electric dryer. She hid behind a mirage of piety, just as I do. “I wish you didn’t. 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. CHAPTER XII.
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