They returned to the castle, neither of them speaking. Besides, it is all reversed now, you know. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. “You must come home to him at once,” said Miss Stanley. . . Melusine tapped on it. 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. For a time she worried about that compulsory bath and cutaneous diseases.
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