A woman may choose any one for her lover, but for her friend she makes no mistake. She would have to leave very soon. All other things were without weight or consequence before the fact that this poor young man would have to depend upon her for his 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. "How are you off there, Shoplatch?" inquired Kneebone. I spend many delightful hours thinking of the pleasant and beautiful things of life.
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