Philip, who gathered that a confidence of some kind was on the way, waited. It was good to see Timothy again. His company was always exhilarating, and at the present juncture it was extra welcome. For Philip found himself at an unexpectedly loose end. He had landed from the Caspian a week before, determined this time to put his whole fate to the touch--only to find that his Lady was not in London. Friends in Hampshire--he knew neither their name nor address, and was much too self-conscious to enquire at t.i.te Street--had s.n.a.t.c.hed her away directly after her father's wedding, and the date of her return was uncertain.

Therefore he leaned at this moment upon Timothy.

Presently Tim enquired:--

"I say, Phil, ever been in love, old friend?"

This was a familiar gambit, and Philip gave his usual reply.

"Occasionally."

"Anything doing at present? Anything fresh?"

"Nothing to write home about, thanks."

Timothy surveyed his friend critically.

"I wonder," he said musingly, "if Romance could ever really find a lurking-place in that gearless, valveless little heart!"

"Afraid not," said Philip. "Romance gives old fossils like me the go-by."

"Don't talk rot of that kind, Phil," replied the boy quickly. "Any woman would be proud to marry you. Fool if she wasn't!" he added, with real sincerity.

Philip responded by waving his gla.s.s in his friend's direction.

"Mr. Rendle, your health and sentiment!" he remarked gravely. He drank; laid down the gla.s.s; and sat up.

"And now, my son Timothy," he remarked briskly, "get it off your chest!

Own up! Who is she? When do the banns go up--eh?"

"Get what off my chest?" enquired Tim, with a great appearance of surprise.

"This great secret. Cough it up! Who is the lady?"

One of Philip's greatest virtues in the eyes of Timothy was that he never, under any circ.u.mstances, ended that particular question with "this time." But he was genuinely surprised at Philip's penetration.

"Great Scott! It must be written all over me if you can spot it, old Bartimaeus!" he said, not altogether displeased. "Yes, you are right. It has happened at last."

"What?"

"_It!_ I'm in love."

"It comes to us all, sooner or later," remarked Philip tactfully.

"And I am going," announced Tim with great firmness, "to bring it off this very night."

Philip glanced at the clock.

"Quarter to ten," he said. "A bit late to begin a job of that magnitude to-night, isn't it? Are you going to apply personally, or by letter?"

"What's that?" enquired Timothy, emerging from a rapturous reverie.

Philip repeated the question.

"Letter?" exclaimed Tim with infinite scorn--"a letter? Write? Write a letter? My sainted aunt, _write_?" He gazed indignantly upon the automaton before him that called itself a man. "My dear old relic of the Stone Age--"

"In the Stone Age," observed the relic, "they couldn't write."

Timothy made reference to the Stone Age which was neither seemly nor relevant, and continued:--

"Do you expect me to sit down and write--write to _her_--upon such a subject as that? Write--with a three-and-nine-penny fountain pen, on Silurian notepaper at a shilling a packet? It's not _done_, dear old soul; it's simply not _done_!"

Timothy, carefully hitching up the knees of his faultlessly creased trousers, lowered himself on to the sofa, the picture of reproachful scorn.

"If it takes you that way," replied the unruffled Philip, "why not use cream-laid vellum and a gold nib?"

Timothy merely made an alarming noise at the back of his neck.

"Or a typewriter, with the loud pedal down and all the stops out?"

pursued the facetious Philip.

"Phil," announced Timothy, with a pathetic attempt to look extremely stern and dignified, "let me tell you that I am in no mood for this sort of thing. Dry up, man; dry up! Do you think I could get all I have to say upon this occasion within the limits of an ordinary letter?"

"Under the present postal regulations," explained Philip, "you can send four ounces for a penny. In fact, if you leave the ends open--"

He caught sight of Tim's tragic face, and concluded his entertainment.

"Sorry, old chap!" he remarked, suddenly contrite. "I don't know why one should try to pull a man's leg on these occasions. G.o.d knows, the business is serious enough."

"Thanks," said Timothy gratefully. "To tell you the truth, I am feeling pretty bad about it. You don't know what it is to be hard hit by a woman, Phil."

"No. I should have remembered that," said Philip apologetically.

"I know you consider me a young blighter who is always in love with some little piece of goods or other," continued the chastened Timothy; "but this time it is serious. This is the end of all things. Never before have I got sufficiently fond of a girl to ask her to marry me; but I am going to do it to-night."

"I wish you luck," said Philip with feeling.

"Thanks, old friend," responded the boy gratefully. "I'm in a terrible twitter."

"Why _not_ write?" reiterated the methodically minded Philip. "A letter has its points, you know. I understand that on these occasions it is a little difficult to keep one's head. Metaphors get mixed; telling points are omitted; and the peroration halts, or misses fire."

The feverish Timothy eyed his friend with amazed compa.s.sion.

"I should like to remind you," he observed, "that we are discussing love-letters--not election addresses!"

"All right," said Philip pacifically; "have it your own way. All I wanted to bring home to you was the fact that once you get your sentiments safely down on paper, the lady is bound to get the hang of them in the long run. On the other hand, if you stake everything on a single verbal encounter, you may find yourself in the tumbril. The G.P.O. may be unromantic, but it is safe."

But Timothy was not listening. He had put on his greatcoat and was now adjusting a white silk m.u.f.fler.