"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. . One swift glance about the room, and a sensation of grim foreboding swept through him. “You ARE a female thing at bottom,” he admitted. Had she not seen them go forth with tracts in their pockets and grins in their beards? To set fire to his imagination, to sting his sense of chivalry into being, to awaken his manhood, she must present some irresistible project. “One hardly knows—all the time. I’ll give you an uncrossed check, and then you can get it at the bank here, quite close by. One can't help being jealous, you know, even of an unworthy object.
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