He managed, by murmuring a few polite and unmeaning phrases, to avoid giving a definite answer to this; begged Mrs. Haddington neither to ring for the butler nor to accompany him downstairs herself; and escaped, feeling much like a stag who had contrived, for a short breathing-space, to throw off the hounds.
He ran downstairs, wondering how to find Beulah. The faint clack of a typewriter led him to the library. He walked in, softly closing the door behind him, and said cheerfully: 'Hallo, ducky! How do you find yourself today?"
"Timothy!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing here? Does Mrs. Haddington know?"
"Not that I'm here, and let us hope that she won't track me down," he replied, bending over her to drop a kiss on the top of her head. "You look rather sweet: what are you up to?"
"Writing a rude letter to a hat-shop."
"Enjoying yourself, in fact. Listen, my heart, are you going to be kept here till all hours, or will you dine with me?"
"No, I don't think so, but - Oh, I'd better not!"
"Well, I think you better 'ad," said Timothy.
She smiled faintly. "Don't be so vulgar! Timothy, I don't know what to do! This is all wrong!"
"Well, don't worry, my love: we'll thrash it out at Armand's," he said encouragingly. "I may as well break it to you at once that you've dam' well got to marry me, to save me from the Haddington clutches. I've just had that infernal wench weeping all over my coat, not to mention the harridan making unmistakable, if vicarious, passes at me. What they see in the fellow! Look, will eight o'clock suit you?"