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. But heavens, I must pack!” She sprang to her feet and disappeared in the room beyond, from which she emerged a few minutes later with flushed cheeks and dishevelled hair. He walked unsteadily towards the door. He picked up the broken fiddle and beckoned. Out of the beaten track! He must not appear too eager. But there was a face pressed to the glass. The wine bubbled and seethed; and the exquisite bouquet of oranges permeated the room. Hill would have followed her, but Mrs.
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