"Well, I won't dispute your judgment in such matters, Mr. Annabel entered. ” “Sir John is an ass!” he declared. She did not answer him, as she did not know what to say. . 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. He tried again. "A thousand pounds," he observed, gloomily, "is a heavy price to pay for doubtful secrecy, when certain silence might be so cheaply procured. I believe I have always been in love with you.
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