“A joke! Sir John, if you had presented yourself here an hour ago we should have greeted you in pained silence. Even now he was not at all sure that she was not playing with him. The night was now advancing, and the party began to think of separating. 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. CHAPTER XXX. ‘It needs not that you tell me. The woman I wanted was another man's wife. Stanley. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself.
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