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. The doctor nodded to him curtly. "My child!" he groaned faintly. His face was wreathed in smiles, his beringed hand was cordially outstretched. It was really very nice of you, but to-morrow you will laugh at it as I do now. F. "Can't you take me with you?" urged the voice; "I'll make it well worth your while.
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