Their conversation was a little disjointed, as the
conversation of lovers in a secluded and beautiful spot should
be, but they came back often to the subject of Sir Timothy.
"If I have misunderstood your father," Francis, declared, "and I
admit that I have, it has been to some extent his own fault. To
me he was always the deliberate scoffer against any code of
morals, a rebel against the law even if not a criminal in actual
deeds. I honestly believed that The Walled House was the scene
of disreputable orgies, that your father was behind Fairfax in
that cold-blooded murder, and that he was responsible in some
sinister way for the disappearance of Reggie Wilmore. Most of
these things seem to have been shams, like the fight last night."
She moved uneasily in her place.
"I am glad I did not see that," she said, with a shiver.
"I think," he went on, "that the reason why your father insisted
upon Lady Cynthia's and my presence there was that he meant it as
a sort of allegory. Half the vices in life he claims are
unreal."
Margaret passed her arm through his and leaned a little towards
him.
"If you knew just one thing I have never told you," she confided,
"I think that you would feel sorry for him. I do, more and more
every day, because in a way that one thing is my fault.
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