His tie had demanded a struggle; he ought to have taken a clean one after his first failure. In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard. "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. They had been playing tennis, with his manifest intention looming over her. The truth was impossible, indecent. There was no mistaking his intentions this time.
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