" "You do not remember me, I dare say," observed the stranger. " "I'm sorry I can't indulge you," replied her master, a little piqued. "Where am I to take it to?" asked Sheppard. 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. ’ ‘Is she now? And what would you be wanting of her, may I ask?’ ‘Because she knows something that may make this fool understand that I am the mistress of—’ She broke off. ’ Leaning down, she raised the hem of the petticoat of her habit to reveal a neat little pair of boots on her feet. She wanted to cry out upon herself for the uttermost fool in existence.
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