As a man, Sebastian had always held enough power to live in luxury. The light was poor, so that she saw their gleaming faces dimly and indistinctly. 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. Promise me one thing before I leave you. You did not marry her because you loved her; you did not marry because she might have had money; you did not marry her out of gratitude; you did not marry her because you had to. ‘Oh, peste, you make me late!’ She glared up at Roding.
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