"Oh—just now," replied the boy carelessly. "A few minutes ago—about."
"Indeed!" It seemed stranger still. No one had come in. Yet Tim never prevaricated.
"Yes," he said, "I gave my wordy honour." It was so gravely spoken that, while pledges involving life and death were obviously not new to him, this one was of exceptional kind.
"Who, then, did you promise—whom, I mean?" the man demanded, fixing him with his stern blue eyes.
And the answer came out pat: "Myself!"
"Aha!" said the other, with a sigh and a raising of the eyebrows, by way of apology. "That settles it—"
"Of course."
"Because what you think and say, you must also act," the man continued. "If you promise yourself a thing, and then don't do it, you've simply told a lie." And he drew another sigh. He scented action coming.
"Let's go at once and find it," said Tim, putting a text-book into seven words. He hitched his belt up, and looked round to make sure his sisters were not within reach of interference. There was a moment's pause, during which Uncle Felix hitched his will up. They rose, then, standing side by side. They left the room arm in arm on their way into the garden. The dusk was already laying its first net of shadows to catch the Night.
"Hadn't you better change first?" asked Tim, thoughtfully, on his way down. He glanced at his companion's white flannel suit. "You're so awfully visible."