"By-the-bye, I have
just seen him perform a quixotic but a very fine action," Francis
said. "He stopped a carter from thrashing his horse; knocked him
down, bought the horse from him and sent it home."
She was mildly interested.
"An amiable side of my father's character which no one would
suspect," she remarked. "The entire park of his country house at
Hatch End is given over to broken-down animals."
"I am one of those," he confessed, "who find this trait amazing."
"And I am another," she remarked coolly. "If any one settled
down seriously to try and understand my father, he would need the
spectacles of a De Quincey, the outlook of a Voltaire, and the
callousness of a Borgia. You see, he doesn't lend himself to any
of the recognised standards."
"Neither do you," he said boldly.
She looked away from him across the House, to where Sir Timothy
was talking to a man and woman in one of the ground-floor boxes.
Francis recognised them with some surprise--an agricultural Duke
and his daughter, Lady Cynthia Milton, one of the most, beautiful
and famous young women in London.
"Your father goes far afield for his friends," Francis remarked.
"My father has no friends," she replied. "He has many
acquaintances. I doubt whether he has a single confidant. I
expect Cynthia is trying to persuade him to invite her to his
next party at The Walled House.
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