"Possibly. If not, we can always climb to the top of the Haymarket and light a beacon-fire," replied the caustic Mr. Mablethorpe, still sore at the thought of yet another scrambled dinner.
His daughter ignored the pleasantry.
"Will you come and help me to find it, Philip?" she said.
Philip complied, and the pair went out to the hotel telephone exchange, leaving Mr. and Mrs. Mablethorpe to regard one another curiously.
"Poor Derek!" said Mrs. Mablethorpe.
"Poor Dumps!" said Mr. Mablethorpe, to himself.
Meanwhile, at the telephone, Sylvia was saying to Philip:— "It would never do to leave you out, Philip, on the last evening, would it?"
For a moment their eyes met. Then Sylvia's dropped quickly.
Philip dined in solitary state in his own flat. He still retained his holding therein, for his duties involved a good deal of travelling, and it was convenient to have a pied-à-terre in London. Timothy was out, and he had the premises to himself, for which he was not altogether sorry. He had a good deal to occupy his mind just at present, and he wanted to think.