Good-bye, aunt. The other lay unconscious in a heap. Beneath two tall elms, whose boughs completely overshadowed the roof, stood Mr. His hug became an embrace. Still, the respite was sufficient for Spurlock to look about for some weapon. She would meet him upon this ground: he should never be given the slightest hint that she was unhappy. “I wonder what you could do?” he said. As soon as dinner was over she went into the kitchen and devoted herself to compiling a tray—not a tray merely of halfcooled dinner things, but a specially prepared “nice” tray, suitable for tempting any one. 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.
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