"I know you consider me a young blighter who is always in love with some little piece of goods or other," continued the chastened Timothy; "but this time it is serious. This is the end of all things. Never before have I got sufficiently fond of a girl to ask her to marry me; but I am going to do it to-night." "I wish you luck," said Philip with feeling. "Thanks, old friend," responded the boy gratefully. "I'm in a terrible twitter." "Why _not_ write?" reiterated the methodically minded Philip. "A letter has its points, you know. I understand that on these occasions it is a little difficult to keep one's head. Metaphors get mixed; telling points are omitted; and the peroration halts, or misses fire." The feverish Timothy eyed his friend with amazed compassion. "I should like to remind you," he observed, "that we are discussing love-letters--not election addresses!" "All right," said Philip pacifically; "have it your own way. All I wanted to bring home to you was the fact that once you get your sentiments safely down on paper, the lady is bound to get the hang of them in the long run. On the other hand, if you stake everything on a single verbal encounter, you may find yourself in the tumbril. The G.P.O. may be unromantic, but it is safe." But Timothy was not listening. He had put on his greatcoat and was now adjusting a white silk muffler. "I'm going," he announced in trumpet tones, "to let her have it hot and strong. I'm going to carry her off her feet. I'm going--The devil of it all is," he added disconsolately, "that one never knows how to begin--when to chip in, in fact. You know! One can't very well get to work while shaking hands; there has to be a little preliminary chit-chat of some kind. Then, the conversation goes and settles down to some rotten, irrelevant topic; and before you can work it round to suit your plans the next dance strikes up, or some criminal comes and interrupts you, or else it's time to go home. And there you are, outside on the mat once more, kicking yourself to death!" Timothy cocked his silk hat upon his sleek head with great precision, and concluded:-- "But I am going to do it to-night, or perish. Give me five minutes in the Freeborns' conservatory between waltzes, and she has simply got to have it! Good-night!" He bounced out of the room, and was gone. "I wonder who the charmer is this time," mused Philip, getting up and knocking out his pipe. "I might have asked him." He rang the bell, and after a moment Mrs. Grice glided respectfully into the room, after the manner of a cardboard figure in a toy theatre. She was followed by her husband, struggling with his coat. "'Ave you rang the bell, sir?" queried Mrs. Grice. "Yes," said Philip. "Will you clear away, please. I want that table to-night--to write at." During the turmoil which now ensued, Philip sat on the padded leather fire-guard and lit another pipe. Presently he said:-- "Mrs. Grice!"