"I don't know," he said helplessly. But he knew well enough, and so did Peggy.

"Then don't be a baby," she said severely. "It is not very nice of you, considering that I am only trying to make you comfortable and--"

But Philip was already doing penance.

"Peggy," he burst out,--he called her Peggy because she called him Philip: they had never returned to "Pegs" and "Phil," although she sometimes addressed him as "Theophilus,"--"I am a brute. Forgive me!"

Peggy relented, and smiled.

"No, you are not a brute," she said; "you are just a child. However, since you are an invalid, I forgive you. But you must not be sulky when people take trouble on your behalf. You are getting a big boy now, you know! Say 'thank you,' nicely!"

"Thank you," said Philip obediently.

"That is _much_ better," remarked Peggy approvingly. "But tell me, why don't you want to settle down in nice comfy rooms with Tim?"

Philip hesitated, and his throat went dry. Was this his opening--at last?

"I don't want to settle down--in that way," he said hoa.r.s.ely. "Peggy, I--"

"Shall I tell you why?" interposed Peggy. "Because you are far too much wrapped up in your work. You work too hard. You think of nothing but Oxford Street and--and carburettors, and things. I want you--I mean, you ought to go about more, and see people, and enjoy yourself, and have a lot of friends."

"I don't want--" declared Philip rebelliously.

"Think how interesting and amusing you could be, if you went about and met more people," continued Peggy.

She got home that time. Philip winced.

"I'm a dull dog, I know," he said.

"No, you are not," said Peggy; "so don't be foolish." Then, softening again, for she had averted the danger, she continued gently:--

"All I meant was that it would do you good to have a little more leisure and distraction. 'All work and no play,' you know! Now, will you look about for nice rooms when you get well--for yourself and Tim?"

"Yes--if you will help," replied Philip, with great valour.

"Of course I will," said Peggy heartily; "but not if you are going to be cross with me."

Philip a.s.sured her that she need never again have any fears upon that score. And he was as good as his word.

CHAPTER XXIII

MAINLY COMMERCIAL

AS soon as Philip's bodily mechanism would permit, flat-hunting expeditions were organised, and eventually resulted in the leasing of an _appartement_ near Albert Gate. The rooms stood high up, overlooking the Park, and were described by the agent and Timothy as "a lovely little bachelor suite," and "a self-contained monkey-house" respectively.

Furnishing followed. One fine morning a party consisting of Peggy, Miss Leslie, Philip, and Timothy set out to purchase household equipment of every kind. It was a disastrous expedition. All four were in a mood for enjoyment, and their high spirits, as very often happens when the young of the two s.e.xes combine to transact business jointly, took the form of helpless, speechless, and unseemly laughter. If a majestic shop-walker, addressing the party as a whole, enquired what he might have the pleasure of showing to them, every one waited for some one else to reply: then, after a pause, every one replied at once. An untimely explosion followed, and the party turned on its heel and hurried, panic-stricken, into the street.

Timothy was at the bottom of the trouble. He began the day by marching into Harrods's and ordering a funeral; repudiating the contract, after ten minutes of ghoulish detail, upon the plea of having suddenly remembered that the deceased had expressed a desire to be buried at sea, and asking instead to be directed to the Canadian canoe department.

Later, he conducted his followers to the establishment of an extremely select and most expensive bootmaker in St. James's. The whole party were ushered with much solemnity into an apartment upon the first floor--Timothy wearing a face of intense gravity, Philip in a gentle perspiration, and Peggy and Miss Leslie dumbly gripping one another's fingers. The room was plainly but expensively furnished. Upon a pedestal in one corner stood a plaster cast of a Royal foot.

Two serious gentlemen in frock-coats stood awaiting them. These, after providing chairs and offering a few observations upon the weather and the Parliamentary situation, inquired Timothy's pleasure.

"I want a Wellington boot," said Timothy.

The stouter of the two serious gentlemen touched a bell; whereupon a third gentleman in a frock-coat appeared.

"A pair of hunting-tops," announced the stout man.

The newcomer brought a small stool, and lowering himself upon knee with knightly grace, began to grope under Timothy's chair for one of Timothy's feet.

"Not for myself," explained Timothy. "For a grand-uncle of mine--Lieutenant-Colonel Busby, of the Indian Army."

"If the Colonel," suggested the senior frock-coat deferentially, "would favour us with a call, we could measure him for a pair more satis--"

"Not a pair," corrected Timothy. "I said just one. My grand-uncle had the misfortune to lose a leg in Afghanistan in eighteen-sixty-seven, so naturally he does not require two boots. Besides, I doubt if he could call on you. He goes out very seldom now: he is almost bedridden, in fact. All he wants is a number nine Wellington boot. Have you got one?"

The frock-coats conferred in mysterious whispers, while the two ladies did not cease to cling to one another.

"We should be happy to make the boot, sir," was the final verdict. "Is it for the right foot or left?"

Timothy's face expressed the utmost dismay.

"I have entirely forgotten," he said. "It is unpardonably stupid of me."

He turned to the cowering Philip.

"Cousin Theophilus," he said, "can you recollect which leg it was that Uncle Hannibal lost?"

"The right, I think," said Philip hoa.r.s.ely. "Not sure, though. Don't rely on me."

Tim turned to Peggy.

"Cousin Geraldine?" he enquired.

"The left, I believe," replied Peggy composedly.

Timothy gave a perplexed smile, and turned to Miss Leslie.

"We must leave it with you to decide, Aunt Keziah," he said. "What have you to say?"

"Honk, honk honk!" replied Aunt Keziah wildly. Timothy rose to his feet, and smiled apologetically upon the gentlemen in frock-coats.

"I fear," he said, "that there is nothing for it but to go home and look. Good-morning!"