“I have nothing to say,” she answered.  “Francis is speaking for me.  I never dreamed that after what I have gone through I should be able to care for any one again in this world.  I do care, and I am very happy about it.  All last night I lay awake, making up my mind to run away, and this morning I actually booked my passage to Buenos Ayres.  Then we met—­just outside the steamship office—­and I knew at once that I was making a mistake.  I shall marry Francis exactly when he wants me to.”

Sir Timothy passed his glass towards his proposed son-in-law.

“Might one suggest,” he began—­“thank you very much.  This is of course very upsetting to me.  I seem to be set completely at defiance.  It is a very excellent wine, this, and a wonderful vintage.”

Francis bent over Margaret.

“Please finish your lunch, dear,” he begged.  “It is perhaps just as well that your father came.  We shall know exactly where we are.”

“Just so,” Sir Timothy agreed.

There was a queer constrained silence for several moments.  Then Sir Timothy leaned back in his chair and with a word of apology lit a cigarette.

“Let us,” he said, “consider the situation.  Margaret is my daughter.  You wish to marry her.  Margaret is of age and has been married before.  She is at liberty, therefore, to make her own choice.  You agree with me so far?”

“Entirely,” Francis assented.

“It happens,” Sir Timothy went on, “that I disapprove of her choice.  She desires to marry a young man who belongs to a profession which I detest, and whose efforts in life are directed towards the extermination of a class of people for whom I have every sympathy.  To me he represents the smug as against the human, the artificially moral as against the freethinker.  He is also my personal enemy.  I am therefore naturally desirous that my daughter should not marry this young man.”

“We will let it go at that,” Francis commented, “but I should like to point out to you that the antagonism between us is in no way personal.  You have declared yourself for forces with which I am at enmity, like any other decent-living citizen.  Your declaration might at any time be amended.”

Sir Timothy bowed.

“The situation is stated,” he said.  “I will ask you this question as a matter of form.  Do you recognise my right to forbid your marriage with my daughter, Mr. Ledsam?”

“I most certainly do not,” was the forcible reply.

“Have I any rights at all?” Sir Timothy asked.  “Margaret has lived under my roof whenever it has suited her to do so.  Since she has taken up her residence at Curzon Street, she has been her own mistress, her banking account has known no limit whatsoever.  I may be a person of evil disposition, but I have shown no unkindness to her.”

“It is quite true,” Margaret Admitted, turning a little pale.  “Since I have been alone, you have been kindness itself.”