Beyond was a field sloping steeply upwards, and at the top a small pine plantation. 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. And here he was first visited by that genius which, in his subsequent career, prompted him to so many bold and successful attempts. She could smell him almost as strongly as she could the new paint on the fire escape walls, along with the wool suit and the weird polyester smell of his wet umbrella. Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig.
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