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. “I am sorry,” he said slowly. He well knows that but two lives—those of Thames Darrell and Sir Rowland Trenchard,—stand between you and the vast possessions of the family. Let me bind you up, and then you can attend to her. We'll lather him with mud, shave him with a rusty razor, and drench him with aqua pompaginis. Other phrases returned now, like echoes. He was detained. Her tone should have warned him, but he was too much in earnest to regard it. I thought it was a mirror at the first, for it was so very like myself. Besides, he might hear things. “Don’t you know?” “Oh! I know—” “Well—” Her face was an unaccustomed pink.
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