" "That is your fault, none of mine. The slow stars circled on to the moment of their meeting. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers. "Vell," he growled, addressing Quilt, "you know who's here, I suppose?" "To be sure I do," replied Quilt; "my noble friend, the Marquis of Slaughterford. Once she heard him mutter, and she leaned down. He was halfway across the ballroom, where the dancing had ceased for the musicians to take a well-earned rest, when Roding pounced on him.
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