Philip enjoyed his meal immensely, though he wondered, characteristically, if all these ministers to his comfort--especially the page-boys--had partaken, or would partake, of an adequate meal themselves. Timothy, who contracted friendships almost as impulsively as he purchased motors, chattered to him with all the splendid buoyancy and frankness of youth. His vocation in life, it appeared, was that of Assistant Private Secretary to a prominent member of His Majesty's Opposition. The post was unpaid, and the duties apparently nominal. But Timothy was quite a mine of totally unreliable information upon the secret political history of the day. He told Philip some surprising stories of the private lives of Cabinet Ministers, and foretold the date of the next general election with great assurance and exactitude. Later in the evening, as they drank coffee and liqueurs in an apartment which reminded Philip of Victoria Station (as recently rebuilt), Mr. Rendle conducted his guest through a résumé of several love-affairs--highly innocuous intrigues, most of them--and added the information that "that sort of thing" was now "cut out" owing to the gracious and elevating influence of a being only recently encountered, whom he described as "the best little girl that ever stepped." "I don't know her very well yet," he concluded, in a burst of candour. "In fact, I don't even know what her name is. I met her at a dance. All I could find on my programme next morning was 'tight pink head-band.' But I will find her again." "I am sure you will," said Philip, who had yet to learn that these final reformations of Timothy's were of a recurrent character. "Thanks, old friend, for your kind words," replied the love-lorn youth. "Tell me, how much does a man require to marry on?" "Thirty-five shillings a week," said Philip. "At least, so some of my colleagues tell me." "I have two thousand a year," said Timothy doubtfully. "I don't know how much that is a week, but I'll work it out some day in shillings and see. Anyhow, when I meet her, I shall take her out in the new car. Are you married?" "No," said Philip. "That's a pity. If you had been, your wife might have chaperoned us. But if you get married, let me know." He looked at his watch. "Ten o'clock," he announced. "Now, what shall we do next? The resources of the Club are at your entire disposal. Would you like to have a dry shampoo, or fight a duel, or buy a postal order, or what? Or shall we go to a theatre?" Philip mildly pointed out that most of the theatres opened at eight. "Then we will go to a music-hall," said the resourceful Timothy. "Waiter, is there a Tube Station in the Club? I always forget." "No, sir," said the waiter compassionately. "But there is a cold plunge-bath," he suggested. "No good, I'm afraid; but thanks all the same," said the polite Timothy. "Get a taxi." CHAPTER XIX PLAIN MEN AND FAIR WOMEN