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The whole was then fired, and in a few minutes the room was a blaze. 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. "Come down stairs directly, and let your mother look at your wrist. And yet I know not—for the object of his visit here to-night was to serve Jack, who, if your statement is correct, which I cannot however for a moment believe, does not deserve his assistance. Now he thought she was so foolish that she knew only one stroke.
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