“That is not a matter worth considering,” she replied.
“I find it very much worth considering,” he whispered, losing his head for a moment as they stood close together in the dim light of the box, and a sudden sense of the sweetness of her thrilled his pulses. “There isn't anything in the world I want so much as to see you oftener—to have my chance.”
There was a momentary glow in her eyes. Her lips quivered. The few words which he saw framed there—he fancied of reproof—remained unspoken. Sir Timothy was waiting for them at the entrance.
“I have been asking Mrs. Hilditch's permission to call in Curzon Street,” Francis said boldly.
“I am sure my daughter will be delighted,” was the cold but courteous reply.
Margaret herself made no comment. The car drew up and she stepped into it—a tall, slim figure, wonderfully graceful in her unrelieved black, her hair gleaming as though with some sort of burnish, as she passed underneath the electric light. She looked back at him with a smile of farewell as he stood bareheaded upon the steps, a smile which reminded him somehow of her father, a little sardonic, a little tender, having in it some faintly challenging quality. The car rolled away. People around were gossiping—rather freely.
“The wife of that man Oliver Hilditch,” he heard a woman say, “the man who was tried for murder, and committed suicide the night after his acquittal. Why, that can't be much more than three months ago.”
“If you are the daughter of a millionaire,” her escort observed, “you can defy convention.”
“Yes, that was Sir Timothy Brast,” another man was saying. “He's supposed to be worth a cool five millions.”
“If the truth about him were known,” his companion confided, dropping his voice, “it would cost him all that to keep out of the Old Bailey. They say that his orgies at Hatch End—Our taxi. Come on, Sharpe.”