” “Right!” he answered. 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 young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell. Anyone would be intrigued. How dreary it all looks. It has been said, that the pier of each arch, or lock of Old London Bridge, was defended from the force of the tide by a huge projecting spur called a starling.
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