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” “The truth,” she murmured, with her eyes fixed upon him. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter. “Don’t you care for Mr. ” Ann Veronica was about to reply, when he went on, with a still more deadly quiet: “I am not here to bandy words with you. 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. Her fingers found the lump she sought and, with a little effort, she dragged out the black-wrapped foil. She repeated phrases of Mrs.
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