She spent many days in the castle alone as he busied himself with his alchemy, or traveled to Florence to visit his remaining political connections. 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. But you, Ferringhall, our pattern, an erstwhile Sheriff of London, a county magistrate, a prospective politician, a sober and an upright man, one who, had he aspired to it, might even have filled the glorious position of Lord Mayor— James, a whisky and Apollinaris at once. I did all for the best, I'm sure. Where the devil have you hidden all those weapons? Don’t tell me you’ve got ’em with you. I don't threaten idly, as you know.
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