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. McClintock did not exaggerate his ability to read faces. He was sitting back from the table now, with one arm over the back of his green chair and the other resting on the little table. Never before had any human being kissed her lips. The evil in his eyes towards her was explosive. She got up, as she had been told to do, at his appearance, and he amazed her by sitting down, according to custom, on her stool. A sea voyage under sail will be the making of him. Spurling, for so was she named, had a warm nut-brown complexion, almost as dark as a Creole; and a moustache on her upper lip, that would have done no discredit to the oldest dragoon in the King's service.
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