At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. 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. " "You have no son," rejoined Sir Rowland, moodily. Marvel, therefore, remained on his probation. I did not know how he would act if I obstructed him. “Your father,” he said, “remarked that all’s well that ends well, and that he was disposed to let bygones be bygones. I recommend the ‘Unusual. ’ ‘You are not on my side at all, and it will be better that, instead of saying such things to him, you would say them to yourself.
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