‘Lord in heaven, did I do that?’ exclaimed Gerald remorsefully. . It stunned her. She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik. I can never be grateful enough. It was there in the breast pocket, stiff and legal looking. He did not know what her game was, although he had a shrewd suspicion that she had been co-opted into it by her supposed husband, the soi-disant Valade. In privacy he read and reread it a dozen times, and eventually destroyed it by fire. 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. "It's very well you haven't crushed the poor little thing to death with this confounded clothes'-bag.
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