"Another forage bill, my dear Peter?" she demanded, passing her arm through his. "Put it away and admire my new morning gown. It came straight from Paris, and you will have to pay a great deal of money for it."
He pulled himself together—he had no secrets from his wife.
"Listen," he said, and read aloud:
"Rue de St. Quintaine, Paris.
"Dear Mr. Ruff,—It is a long time since we had the pleasure of a visit from you. It is the desire of Madame that you should join our circle here on Thursday evening next, at ten o'clock.—Sogrange."
Violet was a little perplexed. She failed, somehow, to recognise the sinister note underlying those few sentences.
"It sounds friendly enough," she remarked. "You are not obliged to go, of course."
Peter Ruff smiled grimly.
"Yes, it sounds all right," he admitted.
"They won't expect you to take any notice of it, surely?" she continued. "When you bought this place, Peter, you gave them definitely to understand that you had retired into private life, that all these things were finished with you."