"What's the matter?" he cried. He could remember when women laid away their gowns in lavender—as this girl's mother had. Hitherto it had been qualified by her conception of all life as a compromise, by her new effort to be unexacting of life. 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. Still it was possible, and the difficulty was only a fresh incitement. " "Quite natural! Never forgive an injury!—I never do!—ha! ha!" "Really, Mr. The decision had been sound.
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