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“Didn’t you know he was married?” asked Miss Klegg, and was struck by a thought that made her glance quickly at her companion. This is her first adventure. “I am tired,” she said, “and I want to rest. “They ought to have been lopped in the spring. I've destroyed my only chance. Mr. Annabel ignored both the chair and the invitation. “Thank Heaven, they are bringing the hors d’oeuvres. Very well. There never is much left for me. 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. Her wedding gown! She wondered if the spirit of the unknown mother looked down upon her.
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