She has no proof—yet. ” Rhea whispered. There was a strip of old rose brocade in the making that set an ache in the girl's heart for the want of it. 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 stood still, almost breathless. I really must leave you now. "What's that you're taking to Sir Rowland Trenchard's?" "Only a box, Sir," answered Sheppard, emptying the glass. ’ Gerald started. .
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