She looked at him with a little twitch at the corners of her
lips.
"Francis dear," she confessed, "I am afraid you are right. I
cannot even look towards The Walled House without wondering why
it was built--or catch a glimpse of that dome without stupid
guesses as to what may go on underneath."
"I think very likely," he said soothingly, "we have both
exaggerated the seriousness of your father's hobbies. We know
that he has a wonderful gymnasium there, but the only definite
rumour I have ever heard about the place is that men fight there
who have a grudge against one another, and that they are not too
particular about the weight of the gloves. That doesn't appeal
to us, you know, Margaret, but it isn't criminal."
"If that were all!" she murmured.
"I dare say it is," he declared. "London, as you know, is a
hot-bed of gossip. Everything that goes on is ridiculously
exaggerated, and I think that it rather appeals to your father's
curious sense of humour to pose as the law-breaker."
She pressed his arm a little. The day was overcast, a slight
rain was beginning to fall.
"Francis," she whispered, "we had a perfect day here yesterday.
Now the sun has gone and I am shivery."
He understood in a moment.
"We'll lunch at Ranelagh," he suggested. "It is almost on the
way up.
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