Attempts were made upon the door of the Lodge; but it was too strong to be forced. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. “I’ve been thinking—all the afternoon. A glance sufficed to show the young man how matters stood. 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. She made no answer, and for a time he debated some problems with himself. The sun was rising, illuminating the trees in black as if they were drawn in ink. Sadly, the Christmas break came to an end.
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