“I do not see a great deal of my father,” she said. “We met, a few months ago, for the first time since my marriage, and things have been a little difficult between us--just at first. He really scarcely ever puts in an appearance at Curzon Street. I dare say you have heard that he makes a hobby of an amazing country house which he has down the river.” “The Walled House?” he ventured. She nodded. “I see you have heard of it. All London, they tell me, gossips about the entertainments there.” “Are they really so wonderful?” he asked. “I have never been to one,” she replied. “As a matter of fact, I have spent scarcely any time in England since my marriage. My husband, as I remember he told you, was fond of travelling.” Notwithstanding the warm spring air he was conscious of a certain chilliness. Her level, indifferent tone seemed to him almost abnormally callous. A horrible realisation flashed for a moment in his brain. She was speaking of the man whom she had killed! “Your father overheard a remark of mine,” Francis told her. “I was at Soto's with a friend--Andrew Wilmore, the novelist--and to tell you the truth we were speaking of the shock I experienced when I realised that I had been devoting every effort of which I was capable, to saving the life of--shall we say a criminal? Your father heard me say, in rather a flamboyant manner, perhaps, that in future I declared war against all crime and all criminals.” She smiled very faintly, a smile which had in it no single element of joy or humour. “I can quite understand my father intervening,” she said. “He poses as being rather a patron of artistically-perpetrated crime. Sue is his favourite author, and I believe that he has exceedingly grim ideas as to duelling and fighting generally. He was in prison once for six months at New Orleans for killing a man who insulted my mother. Nothing in the world would ever have convinced him that he had not done a perfectly legitimate thing.” “I am expecting to find him quite an interesting study, when I know him better,” Francis pronounced. “My only fear is that he will count me an unfriendly person and refuse to have anything to do with me.” “I am not at all sure,” she said indifferently, “that it would not be very much better for you if he did.” “I cannot admit that,” he answered, smiling. “I think that our paths in life are too far apart for either of us to influence the other. You don't share his tastes, do you?” “Which ones?” she asked, after a moment's silence. “Well, boxing for one,” he replied. “They tell me that he is the greatest living patron of the ring, both here and in America.” “I have never been to a fight in my life,” she confessed. “I hope that I never may.” “I can't go so far as that,” he declared, “but boxing isn't altogether one of my hobbies. Can't we leave your father and his tastes alone for the present? I would rather talk about--ourselves. Tell me what you care about most in life?” “Nothing,” she answered listlessly.