“I might have muddled for a time. As usual Brendon lit the candles, and Sydney dragged out the spiritlamp and set it going. 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. At this juncture, the door was opened by Rachel. "Vat ish it, Mishter Vild?" inquired Mendez. . Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. "So I will," rejoined Shotbolt; "so I will.
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