Celeste introduced him to me—oh, how Celeste hated me! She must have known. She still kicked herself for it. The tail-ender of this little caravan, he had been rather out of it. At least, you are one, and I am disguised like one. 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. ‘Why do you stand there? Take him up, and bring him out at once. ’ ‘I’m hanged if I can make out either of you,’ complained Hilary.
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