Lucy heard a stir, but if Dawn Plote were to arise and come into the room, it could only mean two murders tonight. 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. ‘I doubt it. "I'll be his evil genius!" vociferated Jonathan, who seemed to enjoy her torture. He hoped he would get to see the two suitors face off over Lucy. On the one hand, she seemed to think plainly and simply, and would talk serenely and freely about topics that most women have been trained either to avoid or conceal; and on the other she was unconscious, or else she had an air of being unconscious—that was the riddle—to all sorts of personal applications that almost any girl or woman, one might have thought, would have made. "And I want to thank you, too," supplemented Ruth.
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