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. For the present, he murmured his farewells, and turning, caught Hilary’s eye and walked away, crossing the ballroom to move into the less opulent, and less crowded, saloon next door where servants were dispensing refreshments. He would never be able to compose upon it, but it would serve to produce the finished work. Well, I don't think they'll any of 'em nab him, that's one comfort. But one changes the style of one's clothes yearly.
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