And don’t talk until we’re well out of earshot. " There was a pause. . Wood, severely, "and go to bed. “Ugh!” she said. He rose, steadied himself, then walked out of the dining room. 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. “Sufficient unto me is the change thereof,” he said, with all the effect of an epigram.
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