The fibre of his soul had to be tested, queerly, to make him worthy of you. Will you read to me? I am tired; and the sound of your voice makes me drowsy. She had done forever with the Age of Chivalry, and her own base adaptations of its traditions to the compromising life. 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.
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