“The term is a little melodramatic,” Sir Timothy protested. “We look at certain things from opposite points of view. You see, my prospective son-in-law, if ever he becomes that, represents the law--the Law with a capital 'L'--which recognises no human errors or weaknesses, and judges crime out of the musty books of the law-givers of old. He makes of the law a mechanical thing which can neither bend nor give, and he judges humanity from the same standpoint. Yet at heart he is a good fellow and I like him.” “And you?” “My weakness lies the other way,” he confessed, “and my sympathy is with those who do not fear to make their own laws.” She held out her hand, white and spectral in the momentary gloom. At the other end of the lawn, Francis and Margaret were disembarking from the punt. “Does it sound too shockingly obvious,” she murmured, “if I say that I want to make you my law?” CHAPTER XXXIII It would have puzzled anybody, except, perhaps, Lady Cynthia herself, to have detected the slightest alteration in Sir Timothy's demeanour during the following day, when he made fitful appearances at The Sanctuary, or at the dinner which was served a little earlier than usual, before his final departure for the scene of the festivities. Once he paused in the act of helping himself to some dish and listened for a moment to the sound of voices in the hall, and when a taxicab drove up he set down his glass and again betrayed some interest. “The maid with my frock, thank heavens!” Lady Cynthia announced, glancing out of the window. “My last anxiety is removed. I am looking forward now to a wonderful night.” “You may very easily be disappointed,” her host warned her. “My entertainments appeal more, as a rule, to men.” “Why don't you be thoroughly original and issue no invitations to women at all?” Margaret enquired. “For the same reason that you adorn your rooms and the dinner-table with flowers,” he answered. “One needs them--as a relief. Apart from that, I am really proud of my dancing-room, and there again, you see, your sex is necessary.” “We are flattered,” Margaret declared, with a little bow. “It does seem queer to think that you should own what Cynthia's cousin, Davy Hinton, once told me was the best floor in London, and that I have never danced on it.” “Nor I,” Lady Cynthia put in. “There might have been some excuse for not asking you, Margaret, but why an ultra-Bohemian like myself has had to beg and plead for an invitation, I really cannot imagine.” “You might find,” Sir Timothy said, “you may even now--that some of my men guests are not altogether to your liking.” “Quite content to take my risk,” Lady Cynthia declared cheerfully. “The man with the best manners I ever met--it was at one of Maggie's studio dances, too--was a bookmaker. And a retired prize-fighter brought me home once from an Albert Hall dance.” “How did he behave?” Francis asked. “He was wistful but restrained,” Lady Cynthia replied, “quite the gentleman, in fact.”