"Did you hear?" she asked, and he looked at her again.
"I couldn't very well help it. I'm sorry, kid… That was your prospective husband, I suppose?"
She nodded.
"Anyway, you'll know it wasn't an act."
There was nothing he could do. She stood up, and he walked beside her back to the ballroom. She left him there, with a smile that never trembled; and the Saint turned and found Peter Quentin beside him.
"Must you keep all the fun to yourself, old boy?" pleaded Peter forlornly. "I've been treading on the toes of the fattest dowager in the world. Who's your girl friend? She looks a stunner."
"She stunned me once," said the Saint reminiscently. "Or some pals of hers did. She's passing here as Rosamund Armitage; but the police know her best as Kate Allfield, and her nickname is The Mug."
Peter's eyes were following the girl yearningly across the room.
"There ought to be some hideous punishment for bestowing names like that," he declared; and the Saint grinned absent-mindedly.
"I know. In a story-book she'd be Isabelle de la Fontaine; but her parents weren't thinking about her career when they christened her. That's real life in our low profession — and so is the nickname."