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. " "You hear, my son," said the widow eagerly. "What a very remarkable thing it is," he observed, applying to his snuff-box, "that Thames Darrell, whom we all supposed dead,"—Kneebone in his heart sincerely wished he had been so,—"should turn out to be alive after all. “Well, you certainly did very well at tea,” she remarked. She was not very clear about the position and duties of a chorus-girl, but it certainly had the air of being a last desperate resort. ‘Oh, you are making a game with me.
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