” “You do not flatter me,” she laughed. Tucked under the writing-table a pair of yellow and gold Turkish slippers of a highly meretricious quality caught her eye. 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. He scratched his upper lip reflectively. She could feel her face turning beet red. And, lastly, to the Seven Cities o' Refuge, in the New Mint. I’m sorry. Cocked hats and buckled swords spoke of rank. ” She smiled at him broadly and kissed his cheek.
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