He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him. ” “Why not?” she asked quietly. I don't know; I really don't know," she found herself repeating. She went to her own table and sat down. “I would have given up anything to see you your old self again—as you are this evening. My destiny, I am afraid, is going to lead me into the ruts. You must wait till supper's over. ‘You said?’ ‘Mrs Sindlesham, your great-aunt, miss. 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. No matter. And it hampers us.
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