Timothy, who had been engaging Miss Duncombe in animated conversation, supplemented the introduction with a few explanatory comments.
"Babs, old thing," he announced to the damsel, rising to give his seat to Philip, "you must be gentle with my friend Theophilus. He is fierce if roused, and should on no account be irritated while having his tea; but when properly handled will be found perfectly tractable. He is not married."
"Tim," replied Miss Duncombe, "I hate you. Go away!"
"By all means," said the unruffled Timothy. "See you at the Venners' dance on Thursday. Keep me all the odd numbers up to supper and everything after, will you?"
"No," said Miss Babs.
"Thanks awfully," replied Timothy gratefully. "So long!"
He departed, leaving Philip alone with the girl. He regarded her covertly. Miss Babs Duncombe was a fair sample of the ingénue of the present day. She was exquisitely pretty, beautifully dressed; her complexion had been supplemented by art; and her tongue spoke a strange language.
"Tim is rather a little pet, isn't he?" she observed to Philip.
Philip, who had been blinking nervously at Miss Babs's sheeny silken insteps, looked up.
"He is a great friend of mine," he said, "but I am afraid I have never regarded him as a pet."