One doesn’t want to lose a grain. He had tossed an honoured name into the mire; he required no prison bars to accentuate this misery. He leaned forward to embrace her. The turnkey looked round the next moment, but the manoeuvre escaped his observation. 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. “Why on earth,” he asked, “did you hurt me like that?” Ann Veronica did her best to think she had not deliberately attempted to cause him pain. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction.
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