" His demeanour was polished; his manners singularly affable and gentle; and he was remarkable, for the generosity of his temper. For such of us as pretend to be wise—and we are but fools in a lesser degree—we know that humanity moves onward only by the impellant of fine dreams. "You have killed him," cried Winifred in alarm. 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. And neither had any of that theatricality which demands gestures and facial expression. " And he proceeded to unfold his scheme to the woollen-draper.
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