"Not sure. He came here to get the low-down on what he calls the dramatis personae. Noticeable that he asked me no questions about Beulah. That might be because he guessed I was an interested party, or it might be that your arrival interrupted him. If Beulah treated him to her talented impersonation of a clam, which is all too likely, I should imagine that he's fairly bristling with suspicion. I wanted to muscle in on that interview, just to prevent her behaving like the silly little cuckoo she is, but she wasn't having any. What happened I really don't know. I motored her home to her digs when it was over, but she wasn't communicative, and I didn't press her. I'm going round to Charles Street this afternoon, ostensibly to make kind enquiries. If I can do it, I shall get Beulah to dine with me tonight. Some quiet place - Armand's. You come and join us, Jim! Eightish, and morning dress. I'll be there anyway."
"All right," Jim said, hoisting himself awkwardly out of his chair. "I've got to meet a man at the Savoy for lunch, but I don't think my business with him will take me long. If I get away in decent time, I'll nip down to Chamfreys this afternoon, administer a large soporific to Mother, and come back."
"What a bloody pest I am to you!" said Timothy remorsefully.
"You are, and always have been. I'm punch-drunk!" said Mr. Kane. "I'll tell Mother I'm going to see Beulah for myself: that'll hold her for a bit. But she'll want to know what I made of her, so bring her along tonight! She sounds pretty alarming, but better than the blonde, if Mother's description is anything to go by!"
"Good God, did Mamma get the wind up over Cynthia Haddington? What a rare turn she is, to be sure! The mildest of flirtations! She wouldn't look at me anyway: out for big game, Cynthia Haddington!"
This lighthearted conviction was destined to be shaken. Upon his presenting himself in Charles Street that afternoon, at an hour when he judged that Mrs. Haddington would still be resting, Timothy was led by Thrimby to the drawing-room, where he found Cynthia huddled in a chair beside the fire, a litter of periodicals at her feet, and an expression of the deepest discontent on her lovely face. At sight of Timothy, she sprang up, and flung herself in an embarrassingly uninhibited way upon his chest. "Oh, Timothy, thank God you've come!" she cried, and burst into tears.
Young Mr. Harte blenched, but he kept his head. Bracing treatment seemed to be called for, and he applied it. "Well don't make such a song and dance about it!" he said. "Pull yourself together, Cynthia!"
"It's all been so awful!" sobbed Cynthia, unresentful of this cavalier response.
"I'm sure it has," said Timothy, detaching her clasp about his neck. "You'd better not cry about it, though: it'll make your nose red. Sit down, and tell me what's been happening since last night!"
"Nothing." she said. "That's what makes it utterly frightful! Everything's ghastly, and Mummy wouldn't let me go to Meg's party, and she says I've got to wear this filthy black frock, which makes me look a hag, and Aunt Violet's here, and I can't find my powder-compact anywhere, and there's nothing to do, and that beastly radio's got nothing but Choral Services and Forces' Educational, and I wish I was dead! And on top of that I'm so utterly upset about Dan, but nobody understands, or cares! He wouldn't have wanted me not to go to any parties! It isn't as though he was a relation! Mummy ought to want me to go out, to take my mind off it all!"