No mercenary consideration influences me. There is nobody, then?" "Oh, there is an aunt. Mountains out of molehills and armies out of windmills; and you'll tire yourself in one direction and shatter yourself in the other. . ‘—without telling her why,’ he finished, ignoring the interjection. 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 succeeded so well that by the time he asked for her name once more, she fluttered her lashes as coquettishly as ever. It was very much like a real house, with one central stalagmite that looked like a column and a waterfall that served when she wanted to bathe. But the clearly definite thing was the ultimate escape. ‘Whither away, mademoiselle?’ he said grimly, ungently grasping her arm above the elbow. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise. The curtain rose out of the concluding bars of the overture and revealed Isolde on the prow of the barbaric ship. Lucy felt her eyes misting up, turning traitor.
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