"Here comes Margaret, looking
very well, I am glad to see."
Margaret came forward to greet her father before stepping into
the car. They exchanged only a few sentences, but Francis, whose
interest in their relations was almost abnormally keen, fancied
that he could detect signs of some change in their demeanour
towards one another. The cold propriety of deportment which had
characterised her former attitude towards her father, seemed to
have given place to something more uncertain, to something less
formal, something which left room even for a measure of
cordiality. She looked at him differently. It was as though
some evil thought which lived in her heart concerning him had
perished.
"You are busy over there, father?" she asked.
"In a way," he replied. "We are preparing for some festivities
on Thursday."
Her face fell.
"Another party?"
"One more," he replied. "Perhaps the last--for the present, at
any rate."
She waited as though expecting him to explain. He changed the
subject, however.
"I think you are wise to run up to town this morning," he said,
glancing up at the grey skies. "By-the-bye, if you dine at
Curzon Street to-night, do ask Hedges to serve you some of the
'99 Cliquot. A marvellous wine, as you doubtless know, Ledsam,
but it should be drunk.
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