"Darling!" responded the infatuated Timothy.
"Stop blowing on the top of my hand, and help yourself to a cigarette, there's a good child," suggested the darling soothingly.
Timothy obeyed, a trifle dashed.
"I don't think, little girl," he remarked, lighting the cigarette, "that that is quite the way in which a man expects to be greeted by his fiancée."
"His what?" asked Peggy.
"His—well, dash it all, Peggy," exclaimed Timothy impatiently,—he was naturally somewhat tightly strung up to-night,—"don't be a little pig. Here I come hareing along from the dance in search of you, as full of beans as—as—as a—"
"Beanpod?" suggested Peggy helpfully.
"No! Yes! All right! Beanpod, if you like!" cried the sorely tried youth. "But give a fellow a chance. As I say, here I come, red-hot on your track, just overflowing with—well, I can't describe it—and you greet me as if I were a Rural Dean."
"I should never dream of addressing a Rural Dean as 'Timmy,' Timmy," Peggy replied.
"Well, you know what I mean," insisted Timothy, not in the least appeased by this soft answer. "Just think. We have both been passing through the greatest crisis of our lives—the most thrilling moment of our joint existence—"