Sir John was not used to such glances, and he liked them. She could tell that he was leering at her. “One is always playing the surgeon, one kills always the thing one loves best. And there was that dress of hers! She must be warned that she had been imposed upon. From this night I shall pursue a different course; from this night his ruin may be dated. ’ He looked the girl up and down. 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. They had their little dreams about her. ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?’ ‘Let me alone, man,’ Gerald muttered under his breath.
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