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. When Sheila was in a good mood, one almost enjoyed her. "But I dread the effect your departure may have upon your poor mother. ” “I will buy books and a lay figure,” he declared, “to practise upon. At this juncture, Sir Cecil and his followers appeared at the threshold. She even thought that perhaps she might come to love him, in spite of that faint indefinable flavor of absurdity that pervaded his courtly bearing. ‘No, I don’t see much future in pursuing her down this passage. He was not a sailor.
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