He was alarmed when she returned to the stage and her eyes passed over him in the audience. ” “Not exactly,” he answered nervously. She had to think of something fast, or her reaction would start to make believers out of everyone. To his relief, she nodded. ” “And you can’t?” “I don’t think I ought to control myself. 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. Understand once and for all that that answer is final. One of his converted Kanakas dropped in one day. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. .
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