" "I am here in Canton," she replied, simply. Then a ride to London on horseback. 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. He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice. " "Why not?" rejoined Mrs. Sheppard, falling on her knees. ‘I doubt it. “He must never know,” she would whisper to herself, “he must never know. His face changed and she saw, with a stab at her heart, the dawning of irritation in his eyes.
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