“I’m sorry Mister McCloskey! I was out seeing my boyfriend!” He stared at her concernedly. She felt flattered. 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. Only old librarians and Shirley Temples say that. He never finished his sentence. Its very calmness was frightful. “We banished his experiments to here in the basement from then on.
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