. ” “I suppose,” said Constance, stencilling away at bright pink petals, “it’s our lot. She raised this with the air of a conspirator unmasking, and displayed a tear-flushed face. "Where can I hide myself?" he added, glancing round the room in search of a closet. She found the silence comforting, as old people often do. Here goes. As he looked around, he beheld an incessant stream of passengers hurrying on below. Her tone was icy. The slack of her ridinghabit and full under-petticoats was gathered into her left hand, and her booted ankles were visible as she held the skirts well out of her way. The young man had knocked over the siphon. 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. His reputation was slightly tainted by his marriage to her mother, an exotic blue-eyed raven-haired beauty, a Gypsy doll with a clandestine heritage. I won’t try.
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