’ ‘And if she can’t?’ asked Lucy. And I want you for myself—for my wife. 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. He first met her when he had caught her smoking behind the Joliet LaudrO-Matic one cool overcast day in late August. Across the blackboard the colored chalks flew like flights of variously tinted rockets as diagram after diagram flickered into being. His hair had begun to gray, his belly had just begun to round. She was poor. The thought of the picture but added to her despondency.
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