She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. By George, I forgot! McClintock said there was a typewriter in the office and that I could have it. David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall. 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. I shall be very sorry if I cannot have you for a friend.
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