"If the Colonel," suggested the senior frock-coat deferentially, "would favour us with a call, we could measure him for a pair more satis--"
"Not a pair," corrected Timothy. "I said just one. My grand-uncle had the misfortune to lose a leg in Afghanistan in eighteen-sixty-seven, so naturally he does not require two boots. Besides, I doubt if he could call on you. He goes out very seldom now: he is almost bedridden, in fact. All he wants is a number nine Wellington boot. Have you got one?"
The frock-coats conferred in mysterious whispers, while the two ladies did not cease to cling to one another.
"We should be happy to make the boot, sir," was the final verdict. "Is it for the right foot or left?"
Timothy's face expressed the utmost dismay.
"I have entirely forgotten," he said. "It is unpardonably stupid of me."
"Cousin Theophilus," he said, "can you recollect which leg it was that Uncle Hannibal lost?"
"The right, I think," said Philip hoarsely. "Not sure, though. Don't rely on me."
"The left, I believe," replied Peggy composedly.
Timothy gave a perplexed smile, and turned to Miss Leslie.
"We must leave it with you to decide, Aunt Keziah," he said. "What have you to say?"
"Honk, honk honk!" replied Aunt Keziah wildly. Timothy rose to his feet, and smiled apologetically upon the gentlemen in frock-coats.
"I fear," he said, "that there is nothing for it but to go home and look. Good-morning!"
After two hours of this sort of imbecility the troupe found itself consuming ices in Bond Street, having become possessed so far of two bath-mats and a waste-paper basket.
"Now we must be serious," announced Miss Leslie, wiping her eyes. She had learned to her cost this morning that no woman is ever too old to be immune from a fit of the giggles. "Mr. Rendle, will you kindly go home?"
Timothy's only reply was to dash out of the tea-shop and into an optician's on the other side of the street. Presently he returned, putting something in his pocket.
"Where are we going to?" enquired Peggy, as the expedition meekly complied.
"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.