This costume, though somewhat extravagant, displayed his slight, but perfectly-proportioned figure to the greatest advantage. Her situation was perplexing her very much, and the Widgett atmosphere was lax and sympathetic, and provocative of discussion. 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. He won’t be in uniform. This is the way the old thief brings in all his heavy plunder, which he stows in out-of-the-way holes in his infernal dwelling. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. She could tell that he was furious in that instant.
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