"Margaret, what have you to say about
all this?"
"I have nothing to say," she answered. "Francis is speaking for
me. I never dreamed that after what I have gone through I should
be able to care for any one again in this world. I do care, and
I am very happy about it. All last night I lay awake, making up
my mind to run away, and this morning I actually booked my
passage to Buenos Ayres. Then we met--just outside the steamship
office--and I knew at once that I was making a mistake. I shall
marry Francis exactly when he wants me to."
Sir Timothy passed his glass towards his proposed son-in-law.
"Might one suggest," he began--"thank you very much. This is of
course very upsetting to me. I seem to be set completely at
defiance. It is a very excellent wine, this, and a wonderful
vintage."
Francis bent over Margaret.
"Please finish your lunch, dear," he begged. "It is perhaps just
as well that your father came. We shall know exactly where we
are."
"Just so," Sir Timothy agreed.
There was a queer constrained silence for several moments. Then
Sir Timothy leaned back in his chair and with a word of apology
lit a cigarette.
"Let us," he said, "consider the situation. Margaret is my
daughter. You wish to marry her. Margaret is of age and has
been married before.
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