"My daughter is inclined, I fear, to be a little morbid," Sir
Timothy said, settling down in his place.
Francis made no reply. A triangular conversation of this sort
was almost impossible. The members of the orchestra were already
climbing up to their places, in preparation for the overture to
the last act. Sir Timothy rose to his feet.
"You will excuse me for a moment," he begged. "I see a lady to
whom I must pay my respects."
Francis drew a sigh of relief at his departure. He turned at
once to his companion.
"Did you mind my coming?" he asked.
"Mind it?" she repeated, with almost insolent nonchalance. "Why
should it affect me in any way? My father's friends come and go.
I have no interest in any of them."
"But," he protested, "I want you to be interested in me."
She moved a little uneasily in her place. Her tone,
nevertheless, remained icy.
"Could you possibly manage to avoid personalities in your
conversation, Mr. Ledsam?" she begged.
"I have tried already to tell you how I feel about such things."
She was certainly difficult. Francis realised that with a little
sigh.
"Were you surprised to see me with your father?" he asked, a
little inanely.
"I cannot conceive what you two have found in common," she
admitted.
"Perhaps our interest in you," he replied.
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