Women are not in the world in the same sense that men are—fighting individuals in a scramble. She was to see Capes to-morrow, but now, in this state of misery she had achieved, she felt assured he would turn his back upon her, take no notice of her at all. He stepped quickly towards her. After all, his was a pleasant face, and a pleasant voice, and very likely Annabel had behaved badly. 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.
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