“It’s like this,” he said, and dragged a stool beside her and sat down with his elbow four inches from hers and made a sketch. 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. The latter seemed inclined to advance and address the former; but suddenly changing his mind, he shouted to his companion in tones familiar to the stranger's ear; and, striking spurs into his steed, dashed off at full speed along the Edgeware Road. There are men in the Lowndean who laugh at him—simply laugh at him. I think that I will tell you.
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