He gave her one of the sweaty red cans. "Hear! hear!" vociferated Quilt. 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. Wood had the advantage of her husband in point of years, being on the sunny side of forty,—a period pronounced by competent judges to be the most fascinating, and, at the same time, most critical epoch of woman's existence,—whereas, he was on the shady side of fifty,—a term of life not generally conceived to have any special recommendation in female eyes. Sebastian traveled at seventy, eighty, then one-hundred down the freeway. I did not choose to mention my knowledge of this fact to your worthy father; but you may rely on its correctness. “I have learned that.
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