’ ‘Truly?’ Melusine said excitedly. She sat in deep thought for a moment or two, and then nodding briskly, dipped the pen in the ink again and began to write. And when you reflect how much at heart your poor mother, whose loss we must ever deplore, had our union, you will, I am persuaded, no longer refuse me. 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. After a series of mental gymnastics—occupying the space of a few seconds—it came to him with a shock that here was a new specimen of the species. Poor little one. The afternoon was her own; but from eight until midnight she sat beside the patient.
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