“Perhaps I have,” she answered, smiling. “Are you looking for Margaret? She is somewhere about. We were just having a chat when I was literally carried off by that terrible Lanchester woman. Let's find her.”
They strolled up into the lounge. Margaret came to meet them. Her smile, as she gave Francis her left hand, transformed and softened her whole appearance.
“You don't mind my having asked Cynthia to lunch with us?” she said. “I really couldn't get rid of the girl. She came in to see me this morning the most aggressively cheerful person I ever knew. I believe that she had an adventure last night. All that she will tell me is that she dined and danced at Claridge's with a party of the dullest people in town.”
A tall, familiar figure passed down the vestibule. Lady Cynthia gave a little start, and Francis, who happened to be watching her, was amazed at her expression.
“Your father, Margaret!” she pointed out. “I wonder if he is lunching here.”
“He told me that he was lunching somewhere with a South American friend—one of his partners, I believe,” Margaret replied. “I expect he is looking for him.”
Sir Timothy caught sight of them, hesitated for a moment and came slowly in their direction.
“Have you found your friend?” Margaret asked.
“The poor fellow is ill in bed,” her father answered. “I was just regretting that I had sent the car away, or I should have gone back to Hatch End.”
“Stay and lunch with us,” Lady Cynthia begged, a little impetuously.