“I want an engagement. You’ll come along of me, for you’re under arrest, too. What is it? Good God!” An unhappy little smile parted her lips. He saw three people: a young man at the piano, an elderly man smoking in a corner, and a young woman reclining in a chair, her eyes closed. 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. It will be horribly dull, and she is a very trying person.
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