“What about women going to see fights at the National Sporting Club?” Lady Cynthia asked curiously.
“It is their own affair, but if you ask my opinion I do not approve of it,” Sir Timothy replied. “I am indifferent upon the subject, because I am indifferent upon the subject of the generality of your sex,” he added, with a little smile, “but I simply hold that it is not a taste which should be developed in women, and if they do develop it, it is at the expense of those very qualities which make them most attractive.”
Lady Cynthia took a cigarette from her case and leaned over to Francis for a light.
“The world is changing,” she declared. “I cannot bear many more shocks. I fancied that I had written myself for ever out of Sir Timothy's good books because of my confession just now.”
He smiled across at her. His words were words of courteous badinage, but Lady Cynthia was conscious of a strange little sense of pleasure.
“On the contrary,” he assured her, “you found your way just a little further into my heart.”
“It seems to me, in a general sort of way,” Margaret observed, leaning back in her chair, “that you and my father are becoming extraordinarily friendly, Cynthia.”
“I am hopefully in love with your father,” Lady Cynthia confessed. “It has been coming on for a long time. I suspected it the first time I ever met him. Now I am absolutely certain.”
“It's quite a new idea,” Margaret remarked. “Shall we like her in the family, Francis?”
“No airs!” Lady Cynthia warned her. “You two are not properly engaged yet. It may devolve upon me to give my consent.”