“I am afraid,” Sir Timothy complained, “that very few people sympathise with my hobbies or my prosecution of them.  That is why such little incidents as last night’s generally remain undisclosed.  If you really wish to know what happened,” he went on, after a moment’s pause, “I will tell you.  As you know, I have a great many friends amongst the boxing fraternity, and I happened to hear of a man down in the East End who has made himself a terror to the whole community in which he lives.  I took Peter Fields, my gymnasium instructor, down to the East End last night, and Peter Fields—­dealt with him.”

“There was a fight?” Margaret exclaimed, with a little shudder.

“There was a fight,” Sir Timothy repeated, “if you can call it such.  Fields gave him some part of the punishment he deserved.”

“And you were there, Cynthia?”

“I left Lady Cynthia in the car,” Sir Timothy explained.  “She most improperly bribed my chauffeur to lend her his coat and hat, and followed me.”

“You actually saw the fight, then?” Francis asked.

“I did,” Lady Cynthia admitted.  “I saw it from the beginning to the end.”

Margaret looked across the table curiously.  It seemed to her that her friend had turned a little paler.

“Did you like it?” she asked simply.

Lady Cynthia was silent for a moment.  She glanced at Sir Timothy.  He, too, was waiting for her answer with evident interest.

“I was thrilled,” she acknowledged.  “That was the pleasurable part of it I have been so, used to looking on at shows that bored me, listening to conversations that wearied me, attempting sensations which were repellent, that I just welcomed feeling, when it came—­feeling of any sort.  I was excited.  I forgot everything else.  I was so fascinated that I could not look away.  But if you ask me whether I liked it, and I have to answer truthfully, I hated it!  I felt nothing of the sort at the time, but when I tried to sleep I found myself shivering.  It was justice, I know, but it was ugly.”

She watched Sir Timothy, as she made her confession, a little wistfully.  He said nothing, but there was a very curious change in his expression.  He smiled at her in an altogether unfamiliar way.

“I suppose,” she said, appealing to him, “that you are very disappointed in me?”

“On the contrary,” he answered, “I am delighted.”

“You mean that?” she asked incredulously.

“I do,” he declared.  “Companionship between our sexes is very delightful so far as it goes, but the fundamental differences between a man’s outlook and tastes and a woman’s should never be bridged over.  I myself do not wish to learn to knit.  I do not care for the womenkind in whom I am interested to appreciate and understand fighting.”

Margaret looked across the table in amazement.

“You are most surprising this morning, father,” she declared.