“I do. His hand shook so violently that he dropped the handkerchief; and he let it lie on the floor because he dared not stoop. 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 was a manly man, free from any strong maternal strain, and he had loved his dark-eyed, dainty bright-colored, and active little wife with a real vein of passion in his sentiment. \" He said with a question in his voice, a question that revealed that he was intimidated, and not only that, but he had it bad. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. Outside in the hall he paused and thoughtfully stroked his smooth blue chin.
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