“I wish you would,” Francis confessed.

They had passed now through the entrance to the Opera House and were in the corridor leading to the grand tier boxes.  On every side Sir Timothy had been received with marks of deep respect.  Two bowing attendants were preceding them.  Sir Timothy leaned towards his companion.

“Because,” he whispered, “I like animals better than human beings.”

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.

Francis made no reply.  A triangular conversation of this sort was almost impossible.  The members of the orchestra were already climbing up to their places, in preparation for the overture to the last act.  Sir Timothy rose to his feet.

“You will excuse me for a moment,” he begged.  “I see a lady to whom I must pay my respects.”

Francis drew a sigh of relief at his departure.  He turned at once to his companion.

“Did you mind my coming?” he asked.

“Mind it?” she repeated, with almost insolent nonchalance.  “Why should it affect me in any way?  My father’s friends come and go.  I have no interest in any of them.”

“But,” he protested, “I want you to be interested in me.”

She moved a little uneasily in her place.  Her tone, nevertheless, remained icy.

“Could you possibly manage to avoid personalities in your conversation, Mr. Ledsam?” she begged.

“I have tried already to tell you how I feel about such things.”

She was certainly difficult.  Francis realised that with a little sigh.

“Were you surprised to see me with your father?” he asked, a little inanely.

“I cannot conceive what you two have found in common,” she admitted.