The lady had disappeared. And then scratched it out and wrote instead, “Gérard”. 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. What were you doing at Remenham House? I can’t puzzle that bit out. And, now, to find a messenger. “And let us have a talk about this—some other time. This fall saved him, for the horsemen passed over him. Sometimes I tremble, Anna, to think how near I came to passing through life without a single glimpse, a moment’s revelation of this greatest and most awful of mysteries, the mystery of primaeval nature.
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