He did not spend more time with her. 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. ‘Melusine…Melusine. Gosse! Dieu du ciel, but how did he get into the convent? She had perforce to obey his command, for speech was impossible. ’ ‘Oh, that tragic pair,’ uttered her ladyship in saddened tones. Wood, I command you not to stir," vociferated the carpenter's better-half; "recollect you'll be answerable to me.
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