Philip reported favourably.
"Cavities in the cranium now permanent, I gather?" continued Tim sympathetically. "Prospect of ultimate mental weakness confirmed—what? Never mind! I'll get my late boss to provide you with a permanent post under Government."
"My skull," replied the patient mildly, "is all right, except when you make such an infernal noise."
Timothy was contrite at once.
"Noise? Tut-tut! Am I making a noise? This will never do. Nervous and irritable patient—eh? Must be kept quiet. I see. We will get some tanbark down outside. Street Cries Prohibited! and so on. But how are you getting along generally, old thing? How are all your organs? Fairly crescendo, I trust."
"Leave my organs alone, curse you!" growled the invalid.
"Certainly," said Timothy soothingly. "Organs and Street Cries Prohibited! We'll have a notice to that effect pinned up on your bedroom door. It will please Falconer. By the way, how is—er, Miss Falconer, this morning?"
Thereafter the conversation pursued a line far remote from Philip's health. Needless to say, the impressionable Timothy had fallen an instantaneous victim to Peggy. Striding about the room, absently munching some grapes which he had brought as a present for Philip, Timothy embarked upon a whole-hearted panegyric of his present adored one, heedless of the fact that the same panegyric had been delivered, mutatis mutandis, to the same audience by the same rhapsodist many times before.
Philip lay back and listened contentedly—nay, approvingly. He experienced no feeling of jealousy. No man, he considered, could know Peggy Falconer without loving her, so why blame Timothy?
"Have you noticed the neat little way she puts her head on one side, and smiles right up at you, when she wants something done that you don't want to do?" enquired the infatuated youth.