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. I have nothing, nothing that can possibly be passion for you. You’ve got to adjust yourself to the people God has set about you. I can assure you, I wouldn’t be single again for worlds. ’ ‘Pah!’ rejoined Melusine, apparently unconscious of echoing him. She made a few protests, a few excuses for her action in accepting him, a few lame explanations, but he did not heed them or care for them.
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