" "Ah, yes; that's all very well. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. ‘You imbecile. ‘For once, you’re talking like a sensible man. “She doesn’t know. “I think as I feel in a good humour it must be the latter. Marry me. His glasses were gone. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness.
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