"International Furniture Company," was the brisk reply.
Timothy's dupes regarded one another more hopefully.
"That sounds like business," said Philip. "Come along!"
But Timothy's exuberance was not yet exhausted. On approaching the stately premises of the International Furniture Company he suddenly produced a pair of tinted spectacles from his pocket and put them on. Then, assuming the piping voice and humped shoulders of doddering senility, he took the scandalised Miss Leslie by the arm, and limping through the great doorway of the shop, demanded the immediate presence of the manager of the Antique Furniture Department.
On the appearance of that functionary, Tim bade him a courtly good-morning, and said:—
"I desire first of all to inspect your dining-room suites. We are setting this young couple"—indicating Philip, who flushed crimson, and Peggy, who exhibited no confusion whatever—"up in a flat."
The manager, a short-sighted young man with a nervous manner, after a startled inspection of the decrepit figure before him, turned upon his heel and led the way to the dining-room suites. Timothy hobbled after, leaning heavily upon Miss Leslie's arm and coughing asthmatically.
"Tim, you young ass," urged Philip, hot with shame on Peggy's account, "dry up!"
The relentless humourist took not the slightest notice. Instead, he addressed the back of the manager.
"The young folk!" he wheezed—"the young folk! The old story! The time comes when they must leave the nest. My little bird"—here he laid a palsied hand upon the shoulder of Peggy, who choked noisily—"has flown away at last. It took her a long time to find her wings,—at one time I thought she was never going to do it,—but all's well that ends well, as Will Shakespeare puts it. My little bird has found a nest of her own—with honest John, here; and damme! her old grandad is going to furnish it for her! Are these your dining-room suites? They don't make furniture like they did in my young days, when Bob Chippendale and Nick Sheraton were alive. I remember—"