“I will tell you as much as this,” she continued. And who is the man you are not allowed to marry? Valade, perhaps?’ ‘Dieu du ciel,’ exclaimed the girl, jumping up. 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. Curiosity held her by one hand, urging her to recklessness, and caution held her by the other. She remained standing stiffly, unable even to move. He was going to tell me something— and he shut up. It was as if he could smell it on her.
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