"What was it?" He was insistent. You are infatuated. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. "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. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. Tell me how you are earning your living here, Anna—typewriting, or painting, or lady’s companion?” “I think,” Anna said, “that the less you know about me the better. “So you still think of me as husband, even though we have long since tired of each other.
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