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. The evening was warm and inviting, one meant to be spent outdoors. So she approached him with sandwiches. Melusine giggled, and tucked her hand into his. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. Major said you’d gorn. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise.
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