” “I can spare it,” Anna answered suavely. Gentlemen! a glass of brandy will be no bad finish to our meal. 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. God, Lucy, what’s it been, how many years?” “I’m so sorry, John. ” Ann Veronica made a sympathetic little murmur. She was alone, and the mask of her unchanging high spirits was for the moment laid aside.
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