He was a Wiltshire Edmondshaw, a very old family. Perhaps it had been pick-pocketed or jostled from her dress in a hunt. 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. Was not Gerald altogether on her side? He was, even though he played games like an imbecile, a person tout à fait sympathique as she had discovered at the outset. "But I tell you frankly, and Mr. I am quite clear about this. Mrs. " "Traitor!" cried Sir Rowland—"damned—double-dyed traitor!" "Away with him," vociferated Jonathan to his myrmidons, who, having surrounded Trenchard, hurried him off to the coach before he could utter another word,—"first to Mr. You seemed, he thought, to have some grievance which you would not explain and which he thought must arise from a misunderstanding.
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