“The sooner the better,” Francis replied promptly. “Invite me, and I will cancel any other engagement I might happen to have.”
Sir Timothy considered for a moment. The June sunshine was streaming down upon them and the atmosphere was a little oppressive.
“Will you dine with me at Hatch End to-night?” he asked. “My daughter and I will be alone.”
“I should be delighted,” Francis replied promptly. “I ought to tell you, perhaps, that I have called three times upon your daughter but have not been fortunate enough to find her at home.”
Sir Timothy was politely apologetic.
“I fear that my daughter is a little inclined to be morbid,” he confessed. “Society is good for her. I will undertake that you are a welcome guest.”
“At what time do I come and how shall I find your house?” Francis enquired.
“You motor down, I suppose?” Sir Timothy observed. “Good! In Hatch End any one will direct you. We dine at eight. You had better come down as soon as you have finished your day's work. Bring a suitcase and spend the night.”
“I shall be delighted,” Francis replied.
“Do not,” Sir Timothy continued, “court disappointment by over-anticipation. You have without doubt heard of my little gatherings at Hatch End. They are viewed, I am told, with grave suspicion, alike by the moralists of the City and, I fear, the police. I am not inviting you to one of those gatherings. They are for people with other tastes. My daughter and I have been spending a few days alone in the little bungalow by the side of my larger house. That is where you will find us—The Sanctuary, we call it.”