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 hour for which, presumably, she had been created was drawing nigh. He folded the garments carefully and replaced them on the chair. He then spoke with a certain fatherly kindliness of the past. ‘What’s this? Impertinence! French manners, is it?’ ‘Grace à vous,’ Melusine threw at him fiercely. He felt her warm breath upon his cheek, the perfume of her hair as she leaned over him.
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