Letitia, on her return from the theatre that same evening, found her father seated in a comfortable corner of the library, with a volume of Don Quixote in his hand, a whisky and soda and a box of cigarettes by his side. He had exchanged his dinner jacket for a plain black velvet coat, and, as he laid his book down at her coming, she seemed to notice again that vague look of tiredness in his face. "Quiet evening, dad?" she asked, flinging herself into a low chair by his side. "A very pleasant one," he replied. "Montavon's party was postponed, but I have reopened an old fund of amusement here. With the exception of Borrow, none of our modern humourists appeal to me like Cervantes." "You wouldn't call Borrow exactly modern, would you?" "Perhaps not," the Marquis conceded. "I may be wrong to ignore the literature of the present day, but such attempts as I have made to appreciate it have been unsatisfactory. You enjoyed the play, dear?" "Very much," Letitia acquiesced. "The house was crowded." "Any one you know?" She mentioned a few names, then she hesitated. "And that clever woman who wrote 'The Changing Earth' was there in a box--Marcia Hannaway. She was with rather a dour-looking man--her publisher, I think Charlie said it was." The Marquis received the information with no signs of particular interest. Letitia stretched out for a cigarette, lit it and looked a little appealingly at her father. "Dad," she said, "I've made an awful idiot of myself." "In what direction?" the Marquis enquired sympathetically. "If it is a financial matter, I am fortunately--" "Worse!" Letitia groaned. "I've promised to marry Charlie Grantham." The Marquis stretched out his long, elegant hand and patted his daughter's. "But, my dear child," he said, "surely that was inevitable, was it not? I have looked upon it as almost certain to happen some day." "Well, I'm rather glad you take it like that," Letitia remarked. "Now I come to think of it, I suppose I should have had to say 'yes' sometime or another." "Where is Charlie?" "Gone home in a huff, because I wouldn't let him kiss me in the car or bring him in with me." "Either course would surely have been usual," the Marquis ventured. "Perhaps, but I feel unusual," Letitia declared. "It isn't that I mind marrying Charlie, but I know I shall detest being married to him."