” “It isn’t that you’re splendid or I,” said Capes. 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. “Where are we going?” Lucy asked desperately as Michelle began to twitch with greater frequency. “Oh no, you’re breaking up with me, aren’t you?” “No Julian. And in these crowded four weeks, what had she learned? That all horizons were lies: that smiles and handshakes and goodbyes and welcomes were lies: that there were really no to-morrows, only a treadmill of to-days: and that out of these lies and mirages she had plucked a bitter truth—she was alone. She loved to walk through the gardens, graced with columns that loomed overhead.
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