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. In those revolutionary times one had to be prepared. I don’t suppose a girl can tell if a man is in love with her or not in love with her. ‘Merely making a useful contact. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets.
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