Margaret Hilditch, her chair pushed back into the recesses of the box, scarcely turned her head at her father's entrance.
“I have brought an acquaintance of yours, Margaret,” the latter announced, as he hung up his hat. “You remember Mr. Ledsam?”
Francis drew a little breath of relief as he bowed over her hand. For the second time her inordinate composure had been assailed. She was her usual calm and indifferent self almost immediately, but the gleam of surprise, and he fancied not unpleasant surprise, had been unmistakable.
“Are you a devotee, Mr. Ledsam?” she asked.
“I am fond of music,” Francis answered, “especially this opera.”
She motioned to the chair in the front of the box, facing the stage.
“You must sit there,” she insisted. “I prefer always to remain here, and my father always likes to face the audience. I really believe,” she went on, “that he likes to catch the eye of the journalist who writes little gossipy items, and to see his name in print.”
“But you yourself?” Francis ventured.
“I fancy that my reasons for preferring seclusion should be obvious enough,” she replied, a little bitterly.
“My daughter is inclined, I fear, to be a little morbid,” Sir Timothy said, settling down in his place.