Wood will be here presently. ’ Colour suffused the man’s face. He did not want Ruth to see his own stricken countenance; nor did he care to see hers, ravaged by tears. 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. Almost had Martha won out. Her stomach growled, and she clutched at it in reaction, haphazardly observing that the gown had been changed to silk.
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