"Devil take your rondeau!" cried the Vicomte. "Come and hazard a throw with me."
"A l'instant!" Philip untied the ribbon about his rondeau and spread out the parchment. "I insist that you shall listen to this product of my brain!" He mounted a chair amid derisive cheers, and bowed right and left in mock solemnity. "To the Pearl that Trembles in her Ear.
"Cette petite perle qui tremblotteAu bout ton oreille, et qui chuchotteJe ne sais quoi de tendre et de malin.A l'air à la fois modeste et coquin,Si goguenarde est elle et si dévote."A regarder c'est toute une gavotteOù l'on s'avance, se penche, et pivote,Lors que tu branles d'un movement finCette petite perle."C'est une étoile dans le ciel qui flotte—Un vif éclair qui luit dans une grotte—Un feu follet qui hors de mon cheminM'attire, m'éblouit, m'égare—"
"Cette petite perle qui tremblotteAu bout ton oreille, et qui chuchotteJe ne sais quoi de tendre et de malin.A l'air à la fois modeste et coquin,Si goguenarde est elle et si dévote.
"Cette petite perle qui tremblotte
Au bout ton oreille, et qui chuchotte
Je ne sais quoi de tendre et de malin.
A l'air à la fois modeste et coquin,
Si goguenarde est elle et si dévote.
"A regarder c'est toute une gavotteOù l'on s'avance, se penche, et pivote,Lors que tu branles d'un movement finCette petite perle.
"A regarder c'est toute une gavotte
Où l'on s'avance, se penche, et pivote,
Lors que tu branles d'un movement fin
Cette petite perle.
"C'est une étoile dans le ciel qui flotte—Un vif éclair qui luit dans une grotte—Un feu follet qui hors de mon cheminM'attire, m'éblouit, m'égare—"
"C'est une étoile dans le ciel qui flotte—
Un vif éclair qui luit dans une grotte—
Un feu follet qui hors de mon chemin
M'attire, m'éblouit, m'égare—"
Philip paused for his final effect. Arose Saint-Dantin, and like a flash interjected:
"Enfin,Elle m'embête—saperlipopette!—Cette petite perle."
"Enfin,Elle m'embête—saperlipopette!—Cette petite perle."
"Enfin,
Elle m'embête—saperlipopette!—
Cette petite perle."
Outraged, Philip threw the parchment at his head.
"Philippe, do you go to De Farraud's to-night?" asked De Bergeret suddenly. He was lounging on the couch in Philip's room, watching Philip adjust his patches.
"De Farraud's? I'd not thought of it. Whom shall I meet there?"
"Your very obedient," said De Bergeret, flourishing his hat.
"The prospect does not entice me," answered Philip. "No, don't retort! Don't speak. Don't move!" He leaned forward, shifting a candle to throw its light on his face, and frowned at his reflection. The white hand that held the haresfoot wavered an instant, and then alighted at the corner of his mouth. Philip sat back, studying the effect.
"Whom else shall I meet, Jules?"
"The usual people, I fancy. And some others, no doubt."
"De Farraud's friends are so very mixed," deplored Philip. "Do you suppose that De Chambert will be present?"
"Nothing is more certain," yawned De Bergeret. "But it will be amusing, and the play will be high, which is all that matters."
"But De Chambert wears puce small-clothes," objected Philip.
"Does he?Mordieu, I'd like to see that! Puce small-clothes, forsooth! And what does our Philippe wear?"
Philip glanced lovingly down at his pearl-grey breeches.
"Grey, and palest pink, with lacings of silver." He slipped out of his gaily-hued robe, and stood up.
De Bergeret levelled his eyeglass at him.
"Parbleu, Philippe!Grey lace!"
Philip shook out his ruffles.
"A sweet conceit,hein? But wait! François, my vest!"
His valet brought it, and helped Philip to put it on. It was a very exquisite confection of pink and silver brocade.
De Bergeret was interested.
"I'll swear you designed that, Philippe! Now for the coat!"
When Philip had at last succeeded in entering into the coat it was some ten minutes later. François stepped back, panting; Philip arranged his sword to his satisfaction.
"A careless sprinkling of rubies,hein? One in the cravat, one here, another in my wig. And on my fingers, so!..."
"Perfect!" applauded De Bergeret. "Tonnerre de Dieu, pink hummingbirds on your stockings!"
François beamed and clasped his hands, gazing in rapt admiration at Philip's startlingly clocked legs.
Philip laughed.
"Do they please your artistic soul, Jules? And are they to be wasted on De Farraud? I had intended to go to the Saint-Clamond rout, where I know I shall meet Clothilde. Come with me!"
De Bergeret shook his head.
"I promised De Vangrisse I'd be at De Farraud's some time to-night. Forget the lovely Clothilde, Philippe. Bethink you, your so dear friend Bancroft will come to Farraud's in De Chambert's train!"
Philip was fixing a long ruby ear-ring in his right ear, but he stopped suddenly, and looked over his shoulder at De Bergeret.
"Comment?"
"Why, you leap to my bait!" said De Bergeret, amused. "I thought you could not resist so great an attraction!"
Philip fixed the ruby and swept round for his cloak and hat.
"Faith, that can I not. I come, Jules, I come! François, thou rogue, my snuff-box! Would that he may be wearing that salmon-pink! François, my cane! Jules, you are sitting on my cloak!Sangdieu!My new cloak!" He swept De Bergeret off the coat, and shook out the soft, rose-lined folds. "God be praised, it is unhurt!" With a deft movement he swung it over his shoulders and fastened it. "My hat! Jules, what think you of my hat?"
"A grey hat! Philippe, what an audacity! You are really coming to De Farraud's?"
"To meet the so dear M. Bancroft.En avant, Jules!"
De Bergeret went to the glass.
"Cultivate a more restful manner,mon petit! I am not to be hurried. Do you like this mixture of violet and cream?"
"I like everything you have on, even the so badly arranged cravat! I am consumed with impatience! Come!"
"But why? Are you hasting to see the unspeakable Bancroft?"
"But yes! Whom else? I will explainen route."
De Bergeret suffered himself to be led to the door.
"Philippe, it is notconvenableto display such enthusiasm. Languor is now the fashion."
"I am a fashion unto myself, then. I am an original. And I go to call out M. Bancroft!"
De Bergeret stopped short.
"What! A brawl? No, then, I'll not come!"
"A brawl? Is it possible? I shall conduct the affair with greatdouceur, I assure you! You and Saint-Dantin are to be my seconds."
"Miséricorde!Philippe, you become more and more tiresome!" expostulated his friend. "Why must you fight this fellow?"
"An old quarrel—the settling of an unpaid score!Allons!"
"Oh, the devil," muttered Bancroft.
"Où donc?" inquired Le Vallon, who was sitting next to him and who understood English.
Bancroft shot an angry glance towards the door. Le Vallon turned to see what had excited his wrath.
Talking to De Farraud, with many quick gestures and smiles, was Philip. He had just arrived, and he was apologizing for his lateness, throwing all the blame on De Bergeret, who accepted it meekly.
"Oh, the little Englishman!" said Le Vallon scornfully. "Always late, always eccentric. And grey lace! What an affectation!"
Philip cast a swift glance round the room. His eyes rested an instant on Bancroft's face, then they passed on. Two or three men called to him, and he presently went to dice with De Vangrisse. But when Le Vallon left Bancroft to join a faro group, Philip swept up his dice, and with a laughing word to De Vangrisse, promising to return, he walked over to Bancroft's table, and sat down in Le Vallon's chair with a swirl of his full skirts.
Bancroft was about to rise. Astonished at Philip's sudden advent, he sank back again.
"To what do I owe this honour?" he demanded.
Philip dealt out the cards.
"I will tell you. A hand of piquet? You will declare?" Bancroft sorted his hand rather sullenly. Not until he had declared and played his card did Philip speak again. Then he took the trick and leaned forward.
"It comes to my ears that you have been bandying a certain lady's name about Paris in a way that does not please me. You understand, yes?"
"What the devil is it to you?" cried Bancroft, crimson-faced.
"Sh, sh! Not so loud, if you please! Go on playing! I am informed that you speak of this lady as a pretty piece! It is not how I will have you speak of her. Also, you say that she fell in love with youen désespéré.Eh bien, I say that you lie in your throat!"
"Sir!"
"Doucement, doucement.Further, I say that if so be you again mention this lady's name in public I shall send my lackeys to punish you. It is understood?"
"You—you—you impudent young cockerel! I shall know how to answer this! What's Cleone to you, eh?"
The pleasant smile died. Philip leaned forward.
"That name I will not have spoken, m'sieur. Strive to bear it in mind. I have many friends, and they will tell me if you speak of the lady when I am not by. And of the rest I have warned you."
"Ye can understand this, Mr. Jettan—I'll speak of her how and when I like!"
Philip shrugged.
"You talk foolishly. There is no question of refusal to comply with my wishes. If I so please I can make Paris ve-ry uncomfortable for you. You know that, I think."
Bancroft was speechless with rage.
"There is another matter," continued Philip amiably. "Once before I had occasion to complain of your manner. I do so again. And I find the colour of your ribbons most distasteful to mine eye."
Bancroft sprang up, his chair grating on the polished floor.
"Perhaps you'll have the goodness to name your friends, sir?" he choked.
Philip bowed.
"This time, yes. It is a little debt I have to pay. M. le Comte de Saint-Dantin and M. de Bergeret will act for me. Or De Vangrisse yonder, or M. le Duc de Vally-Martin."
"The first named will suffice," snapped Bancroft. "My friends will wait on them as soon as may be." With that he flounced away to the other end of the room.
Philip walked back to De Vangrisse and perched on the arm of his chair.
De Bergeret cast his dice and nodded at Philip.
"The deed is done?"
"Most satisfactorily," answered Philip. "Throw, Paul, you can beat that."
"Not I! Jules has the devil's own luck to-night. If it is not an impertinence, are you to meet M. Bancroft?"
"Of course. Oh,peste!"—as De Vangrisse cast his dice.
"What did I tell you? May I second you?"
"A thousand thanks, Paul. But Saint-Dantin and Jules have consented to act for me."
"Well, I shall come as a spectator," said De Vangrisse. "Jules, another hundred! I'll not be beaten by you!"
Le Vallon, who had watched the brief encounter between his friend and Philip with great curiosity, now edged across to where Bancroft was standing.
Bancroft turned.
"Come apart a moment," he said. His voice was still trembling with passion. He and Le Vallon drew near to the window.
"You saw that damned fellow come up to me just now?"
"But yes! I watched very closely. What did he want with you?"
"He came to impose his will—his will!—on mine. Curse his impudence!"
"Why? What did he say?" asked Le Vallon inquisitively.
Bancroft did not answer.
"I want you to act for me," he said abruptly. "He—insulted me, and I've sworn to teach him a lesson."
Le Vallon drew back a little.
"What? You seek to kill him? Killle petit Anglais?" His tone was dubious.
"No, not quite that. I've no wish for trouble. He has too many friends. I'll teach him to leave me alone!"
"Oh, yes! But..." Le Vallon pursed his lips.
"But what?" barked Bancroft.
"It is said that he is a not-to-be-despised swordsman. He pinked Armand de Sedlamont with great ease."
"Pooh!" said Bancroft. "Six months ago—"
"I know, I know, but he has changed."
Bancroft scowled.
"Well, will you act for me or not?"
Le Vallon drew himself up.
"M'sieur, I do not entirely appreciate your manner."
Bancroft laughed uneasily.
"Oh, come, Le Vallon! Don't take offence! That puppy has so annoyed me that I can scarce keep my temper. Where's De Chambert?"
"Playing at lansquenet with De Farraud. And I think we had best mingle with the others. I do not care to appear conspicuous."
Bancroft caught at his arm.
"But you will second me?"
"I shall be honoured," bowed Le Vallon. "And I hope you will succeed in showing my fine gentleman his place."
Later in the evening Saint-Dantin sauntered over to where Philip sat, perched on the edge of the table, toasting some of his friends. Saint-Dantin joined the gathering and laid a hand on Philip's shoulder. Philip, who was drinking, choked.
"Malédiction!Oh, 'tis you, Louis! What now?"
"There is a rumour that you go to fightce cherBancroft, Philippe."
"Already?" Philip was startled. "Who told you?"
"Personne." Saint-Dantin smiled. "It is whispered here and there. And Bancroft looks so black at you. It's true?"
"Of course it's true! Did I not say I should do it? His seconds are to wait upon you and Jules."
"How very fatiguing!" sighed Saint-Dantin. "But quite amusing. One jubilates. Bancroft is not at all liked. He is soentreprenant. An' I mistake not, you will have an audience," he chuckled.
"What?" Philip gripped his wrist. "I won't have an audience!"
Saint-Dantin blinked, loosening the clasp on his wrist.
"Pas si éclatant, Philippe," he said. "You twist and turn like a puppet on wires! I only know that at least five here to-night swear they'll see the fight."
"But it is monstrous!" objected Philip. "I forbid you to divulge the whereabouts of the meeting."
"Oh,entendu! But the secret will out."
"How am I to keep a steady wrist with a dozen ogling fools watching?" demanded Philip.
"You must keep it steady," said De Chatelin. "My money's for you,petit Anglais!"
Philip looked genuinely perturbed.
"Henri, it is iniquitous! It is not a public exhibition that I engage in! One would say we were gladiators!"
"Reste tranquille," grinned De Vangrisse. "We are all backing you,mon petit."
"I trust you'll not forget to inform His Majesty of the rendezvous," said Philip, resorting to bitter sarcasm. "And have you engaged a fiddler to enliven the meeting?"
"Philippe se fâche," teased De Chatelin. "Quiet, little fighting cock!"
"I shall write an ode!" threatened Philip direfully.
"Ah no, that is too much!" cried De Vangrisse with feeling.
"And I shall read it to you before I engage. Well?"
"It is a heavy price to pay," answered Paul, "but not too heavy for the entertainment."
Cleone sat on a stool at Sir Maurice's knee and sighed. So did Sir Maurice, and knew that they sighed for the same thing.
"Well, my dear," he said, trying to speak cheerfully, "how is your mamma?"
"The same as ever, I thank you," answered Cleone.
Sir Maurice patted her hand.
"And how is little Cleone?"
"Oh, sir, can you ask? I am very well," she said, with great sprightliness. "And you?"
Sir Maurice was more honest.
"To tell the truth, my dear, I miss that young scamp."
Cleone played with her fingers, her head bent.
"Do you, sir? He should be home again ere long. Do you—do you yet know where he is?"
"No. That does not worry me. My family does not write letters."
"Mr. Tom—has not told you, I suppose."
"No. I've not seen Tom for some time.... The boy has been away six months now. Gad, but I'd like to see him walk in at that door!"
Cleone's head sank a little lower.
"Do you think—harm could have come to him, sir?"
"No. Else had I heard. Faith, it's our own fault, Cleone, and we are grumbling!"
"I never—"
"My dear, don't pretend to me! Do you think I don't know?"
Cleone was silent.
"We sent Philip to acquire polish. Heaven knows what has happened to him! Would you care greatly if he returned—without the polish, child?"
"No!" whispered Cleone.
"Nor should I. Strange! But I should prefer it, I confess."
"Do you think—do you think he—he will be—very elegant, Sir Maurice?"
He smiled.
"I fear not, Cleone. Can you see our Philip tricked up in town clothes, apeing town ways?"
"N—no."
There was silence for a few minutes.
"Sir Maurice."
"My dear?"
"Mamma has a letter from my aunt, Lady Malmerstoke."
"So? And what does she say therein?"
"She—she wants me to go to her for the season."
Sir Maurice looked down at her.
"And you are going?"
"I don't—know. I—do not wish to leave you, sir."
"That is very kind of you, child. But I'd not have you stay for my sake."
"It's no such thing, sir. I do not want to go."
"Why, Cleone, not for the season? Think of the balls and the routs."
"I don't—care about it." It was a forlorn little voice, and Sir Maurice patted her hand again.
"Tut-tut, my love!"
Another silence.
"I do not think it is very kind in Philip to stay away from you for so long a time," said Cleone wistfully.
"You forget, dear. I sent him. He is but obeying me."
"And—and me."
Sir Maurice found nothing to say to that.
"Was I—perhaps—very wicked—to—to—do what he said—I did?"
"What was that, Cleone?"
"Th—throw away—an honest man's love for—for—oh, you know the things he said!"
"Silly young fool! You gave him his just deserts, Cleone. And you may vouch for it that he will be back here at your feet in a very short while."
Cleone glanced up through her lashes.
"Do you really think so?" she asked eagerly.
"Of course I do!" he answered stoutly.
Just then a bell clanged somewhere in the distance. Cleone jumped up and ran to the window which looked out on the avenue. She tip-toed, craning her neck to see who stood in the porch.
"Why, it is Sir Harold Bancroft!" she exclaimed.
"Plague take him, then!" said Sir Maurice, disagreeably. "I can't stand the fellow or his sprig of a son!"
Cleone blushed and continued to stand with her back to the room until footsteps sounded along the passage, and the door opened to admit the visitor.
Sir Maurice rose.
"Give ye good den, Bancroft. It's good of you to come to visit me this cold day."
Bancroft wrung the thin hand, pressing Sir Maurice's rings into his fingers. He bowed jerkily to the curtseying Cleone, and blurted forth his errand.
"'Tis a joke I must have you share! 'Twill be the death of you, I vow. You knew my son was in Paris?"
Sir Maurice put forward a chair.
"Really? No, I did not know."
"Well, he is. And"—a chuckle escaped him—"so is yours!"
"Oh!" It was a smothered exclamation from Cleone.
Sir Maurice smiled.
"I guessed as much," he said, quite untruthfully. "Have you news from Henry?"
"No, not I! But I've a letter from an old friend of mine—Satterthwaite. Do ye know him?"
Sir Maurice shook his head. Having seen his guest into a chair, he sat down on the couch, and beckoned Cleone to his side.
"No. He, too, is in Paris?"
"Ay. Now wait while I find the letter! You'll split o' laughter when you've heard me read it!" He rummaged in his capacious pockets, and drew forth two or three crumpled sheets. These he spread out, and proceeded to find the place.
"'I trust....' No, that's not it! 'We are' ... Hum, hum, hum! Ah, here we have it! Just listen to this!" He held the parchment close to his nose and began to read:
"'... Whom should I meet but your boy, Henry! I had no notion he was in Paris, or I should have sought him out, you may depend. The manner of my meeting with him was most singular, as you will agree, and it is the more interesting as the occasion affords the subject for the latest joke of Paris, nay, I may almost say scandal, though to be sure I mean not our meeting, but that which I am about to relate....' A bit involved, that," remarked Bancroft, frowning.
"Not at all," said Sir Maurice. "I understand perfectly."
"Well, it's more than I do! However: 'I came upon Moosoo de Château-Banvau the other day....'"
"Château-Banvau!"
"Eh? Do ye know him?"
"Do I know him! As I know my brother!"
"Fancy! There's a coincidence! But there's more to come! Where was I? Oh, yes—'came upon Moosoo de Château-Banvau the other day and found him in great amusement, which he offered me to share, and the which I agreed to. He propounded me the joke that we were to see, and one in which hisprotégé, a Mr. Philip Jettan, was the part cause of and your son, Henry, the other!' Gad, that's a fine sentence! Are ye listening to me, Jettan?"
There was no need to ask that question. Both his auditors had their whole attention fixed on him. Satisfied, he continued: "'This young Jettan is, so says the Marquis, the craze of Fashionable Paris, the ladies' darling'—do ye hear that now?—'and the maddest young scamp that you could wish for. Then the Marquis further told me that Henry was in Paris and engaged to fight a duel with this Jettan.'"
"Oh, heavens!" cried Cleone.
"Ye may well say so, my dear! Now, wait a while—the joke's against me, I confess, but I had to tell you—'The cause whereof, it is rumoured, is some lady whom both are enamoured of, some French wench, I think.'"
Cleone was rigid. Her fingers tightened unconsciously on Sir Maurice's arm.
"'Jettan being a great favourite among the young sparks here, they all, having got wind of the affair, combined among themselves, laying wagers about the fight, the most of the money being laid on Jettan, as I hear. Then to bait him, or what-not, they conspired to be present at the meeting despite Jettan's protests. The Marquis laughed mightily here, and said that Jettan threatened to read them an ode should they appear, which he seemed to find vastly entertaining on account of some joke or other concerning Jettan's poetry.'"
"Philip'spoetry?..." said Sir Maurice faintly. "Proceed, Bancroft."
"Ay, wait a bit! Here we are: 'The Marquis was going to be present, having heard of the rumour, and swore to take me along with him. The which I did consent to, as you may imagine. Well, we came out to Neuilly in due course at half-after eight one morning, and mighty cold it was, but that's neither here nor there. There we found a fair gathering of young rakes with their horses or chariots, some half dozen in all, laying wagers and all mightily amused. And, stap me, if there was not a fiddler scraping away as if his life depended on it. Soon after we were come, up drives a coach and out jumps three men, the first in great disorder at finding so many there assembled. This was Jettan, and prodigious elegant and finicky he was, too, all patched and painted, and tricked up in velvets and silks and I don't know what. He fell into a great rage, though he was laughing half the time, and, indeed, 'twas a ridiculous situation, and he could scarce help but to be tickled by it. He turns to his seconds and rates them, but they were too amused to do aught but to hold their sides. Then young Jettan orders us all off and especially begs the Marquis to exert his influence, which he would not do. Then Jettan appealed to us to withdraw, whereat they were all the more entertained, and adjured him tose taire, as they call it, calling himpetit Philippeand the like. Then Jettan started to laugh himself and pulls out a roll of parchment from his pocket, and was for declaiming some ode he had writ, but that three of them took it from him. Then he says, "At least, send that damned fiddler away!" and they replied, "All in good time," but 'twas himself had asked for him. Before he could say more, which he was about to do, up comes another coach, and out gets your boy, Henry, and his seconds. When they saw what was toward they were mightily put out, as you may imagine, and, indeed, Henry was white and purple with rage, saying this was an insult and he was not to be so mocked, and the like. His seconds spoke apart with young Jettan's, and I give you my word, they were dancing with fury, at least one was, but the little one seemed more entertained. Then up comes Jettan, very solemn and dignified, and bows to Henry. "I ask you to believe, moosoo," says he, "that this is none of my designing. I desire," says he, "to offer you my apologies for my friends' ill-timed pleasantry." Henry could scarce mouth forth a word, so enraged was he, and was for retiring at once, saying that he had borne much, but this was too much. The fiddler was ordered to stop his scraping now, and the onlookers all vowed they had come with serious intent to watch the fight, and would not go until they had done so. Jettan offers to meet Henry another day, when and where he will, but I could see Henry was burning to run him through. "Since we are here," says he, "let us go on with it. I await your convenience," he says, and, "I thank you," replies Jettan and stands back. Henry's seconds were all for retiring, but he'd have none of it, and bids them go to and choose the ground. At last all was prepared, and the two stripped off their coats and vests. Everyone was becomingly sober now, and, indeed, mighty anxious for young Jettan, who is the smaller of the two, and Henry looking murder as he was. Henry fought devilish hard, and, indeed, is a cunning fencer, as you no doubt apprehend, but young Jettan was like a bit of quicksilver, in and out with his sword most finicky and dainty. Soon we saw that Henry was no match for him at all, and, indeed, could have been run through the body a score of times, Jettan playing with him very pretty to see, but I was sore distressed to see Henry so put to it. He gave Jettan but the faintest scratch, and before we knew what was to do, there was Henry reeling back and his sword on the ground. At which Jettan bows very polite, and but a mite out of breath, and picks up the sword and hands it to Henry. Henry was for continuing, and a brave lad he is, but the seconds would have none of it, and 'twas all over. "I trust you are satisfied, sir?" says Jettan. "Satisfied be damned!" pants Henry, clutching at his shoulder. "Of the other matter between us," says Jettan, "I can only counsel you to remember, for I meant what I said." Then he walks off and we rode away.'" Bancroft stopped. "I saw the joke was against me. What do ye think of that, Sir Maurice?"
Sir Maurice drew a deep breath.
"My God, I would I had been there!" he said fervently.
"Ay, 'twould have been a fine sight, I vow! But did ye ever hear the like of it? Philip and the petticoats, eh? These lads, Sir Maurice! These lads! Satterthwaite says he writes madrigals and what-not to the ladies' eyelashes!" Bancroft went off into a long chuckle. "And so ruffled my young hot-head, who had always a way with the petticoats!"
Cleone rose and walked to the window. She opened it, cooling her hot cheeks. And there she stayed, seated on the low couch that ran under the window, until Bancroft finally took his departure.
When Sir Maurice returned from seeing his guest out of the house, he found her pale again, and very stiff.
"Ahem!" said Sir Maurice. Then, brusquely: "Pack o' lies!"
"Do you think so?" said Cleone hopefully.
"Of course I do! The boy is but doing what I told him to do—acquiring polish andsavoir fairewith your sex, my dear."
Cleone sprang up.
"You told him to—oh, how could you, sir?"
"My dear, it's less than nothing, I dare swear. But Philip worsting Bancroft like that! Philip the pet of Society! Gad, I never hoped for this!"
"Nor I," said Cleone bitterly. "And—and 'tis my own—f-fault—for—s-sending him away—s-so c-cruelly, but—but—oh, howdarehe?"
Sir Maurice was silent.
"He—he—I thought he—" she broke off, biting her lip. After a slight pause she spoke again, with would-be lightness. "I—do you know, I think I shall go to my aunt after all?"
"Will you, my dear?" said Sir Maurice.
That evening he was moved to write to his brother, an infrequent proceeding. The outcome of that letter was a brief note from Tom, which reached Philip a week later.
"Dear Nephew,—The Devil's in it now and no Mistake. Old Satterthwaite was Present at your crazy Duel, and has writ the whole Tale to Harry Bancroft, who, curse him for an interfering old Fool, read it to your Father and Cleone. The Tale is that you and B. quarrelled over some French Minx, which may be True for all I know. In any Case, Cleone is monstrous put out, and Comes to Towne to her Aunt, old Sally Malmerstoke. Maurice writes me this and demands your Return, being Upset for the Girl's sake, but secretly Delighted at the Story, if I read his Letter aright. Do as you please, dear Boy, but I warn you, Cleone is in the Mood for any Madness, as is the way when a Maid thinks herself slighted. And she is a Prodigious pretty Chit. My love to Château-Banvau and to Yr Self.—Tom."
Thomas, deep in the latest copy of theRambler, was aroused by the sound of wheels drawing up outside the house. He rose and stretched himself, wondering who could choose such a day wherein to visit him. He strolled to the window and peered out into the foggy street. He was surprised to see, not a light town-chariot, but a large travelling coach, top-heavy with baggage, and drawn by four steaming horses. As he watched, the door of the vehicle was thrown open and a slight gentleman sprang out, not waiting for the steps to be let down. He was muffled in a many-caped overcoat of Parisian cut, and shining leather boots were on his feet. Tom was puzzled. Then, from out the coach, issued two other men, evidently servants, the one small and wiry, the other lank and cadaverous. Both seemed depressed. The man in the well-cut cloak waved his hands at them and appeared to shoot forth a number of instructions. The little man, scarcely visible beneath the bandboxes that he carried, nodded, shivered, and rounded on the lean man. Then the man in the cloak turned, and ran up the steps to Tom's front door. A long bell-peal sounded through the house.
Tom walked to the fire and stood with his back to it. Possibly this was his friend Mainwaring come to visit him, but why did he bring so much baggage? Tom rather hoped that the unknown guest had come to his house in mistake for another's.
But a quick tread came across the hall and the door of the library was swept open. Hat in hand, the visitor stood before Tom, bowing.
"Revered uncle, I kiss your hands!" And he proceeded to do so.
"God ha' mercy, it's Philip!" gasped Tom. "I never expected you for another week, lad!"
Philip tossed his hat and gloves on to the table and wriggled out of his cloak.
"I amde trop, no?"
"Never in your life!" Tom assured him. "Stand up, child, and let me look at you!" Then, as Philip clicked his heels together and faced him, laughing, his eyes widened, and his lips formed a soundless whistle. "By the Lord Harry, Philip, it's marvellous! How could you do it in six months——!"
Philip rustled over to the fire and stooped, warming his hands.
"Fog, cold, damp! Brrh! The unspeakable climate! Tom, it is permitted that I stay with you until I find an abode?"
With difficulty his uncle withdrew his gape from Philip's claret-coloured coat of fine cloth, laced with gold.
"Can you ask? Stay as long as you will, lad, you're a joy to behold!"
"Merci du compliment!" smiled Philip. "You perhaps admire the mixture of claret and biscuit as I wear it?"
Tom's eyes travelled down to the creaseless biscuit-coloured small-clothes.
"Ay. I admire everything. The boots most of all. The boots—Philip, where did you obtain them?"
Philip glanced carelessly down at his shapely leg.
"They were made for me. Me, I am not satisfied with them. I shall give them to François."
"Give them to François?" cried his uncle. "Ye wicked boy! Where is the fellow?"
"He and Jacques are struggling with my baggage and Moggat." He stretched out a detaining hand as Tom started forward to the door. "Ah, do not disturb yourself. I have spoken withce bonMoggat, and all is well. He will arrange everything."
Tom came back.
"He will be in a frenzy, Philip! All that baggage!"
"All—that baggage?" Philip spoke with uplifted brows. "It has arrived?" He went to the window and looked out. "But no, not yet."
"B—but—is there more to come?" asked Tom.
"But of course! The bulk follows me."
Tom sat down weakly.
"And you who six months ago thought yourself rich in the possession of three coats."
Philip came back to the fire. He made a little grimace of distaste.
"Those far-off days! That is ended—completely!"
Tom cast him a shrewd glance.
"What, all of it? Cleone?"
"Ah!" Philip smiled. "That is—another—matter. I have to thank you for your letter, Tom."
"It brought you back?"
"En partie.She is here?"
"Ay, with Sally Malmerstoke. She is already noticed. Sally takes her everywhere. She is now looked for—and courted." His eyes twinkled.
"Oho!" said Philip. He poured out a glass of burgundy from the decanter that stood on a small table. "So she is furious with me, yes?"
"So I believe. Satterthwaite wrote that you and Bancroft fought over the fair name of some French lass. Did you?"
Philip sipped his wine.
"Not a whit. 'Twas her own fair name,à vrai dire."
"Oh! You'll tell her that, of course?"
"Not at all."
Tom stared.
"What then? Have you some deep game in mind, Philip?"
"Perhaps. Oh, I don't know! I thank her for reforming me, but, being human, I am hurt and angry!Le petit Philippe se fâche," he said, smiling suddenly. "He would see whether it is himself she loves, or—a painted puppet. It's foolish, but what would you?"
"So you are now a painted puppet?" said Tom politely.
"What else?"
"Dear me!" said Tom, and relapsed into profound meditation.
"I want to have her love me for—myself, and not for my clothes, or my airs and graces. It's incomprehensible?"
"Not entirely," answered Tom. "I understand your feelings. What's to do?"
"Merely my baggage," said Philip, with another glance towards the window. "It is the coach that you hear."
"No, not that." Tom listened. Voices raised in altercation sounded in the hall.
Philip laughed.
"That is the inimitable François. I do not think that Moggat finds favour in his eyes."
"I'll swear he does not find favour in Moggat's eyes! Who is the other one?"
"Jacques, my groom andhomme à tout faire!"
"Faith, ye've a retinue!"
"What would you?" shrugged Philip. He sat down opposite his uncle, and stretched his legs to the fire. "Heigh-ho! I do not like this weather."
"Nor anyone else. What are you going to do, now that you have returned?"
"Who knows? I make my bow to London Society, I amuse myself a little—ah yes! and I procure a house."
"Do you make your bow to Cleone?"
An impish smile danced into Philip's eyes.
"I present myself to Cleone—as she would have had me. A drawling, conceited, and mincing fop. Which I am not, believe me!"
Tom considered him.
"No, you're not. You don't drawl."
"I shall drawl," promised Philip. "And I shall be very languid."
"It's the fashion, of course. You did not adopt it?"
"It did not entice me. I amle petit sans repos, andle petitPhilippeau Cœur Perdu, andpetit original.Hé, hé, I shall be homesick! It is inevitable."
"Are you so much at home in Paris?" asked Tom, rather surprised. "You liked the Frenchies?"
"Liked them! Could I have disliked them?"
"I should have thought it possible—for you. Did you make many friends?"
"A revendre!They took me to their bosoms."
"Did they indeed! Who do you count amongst your intimates?"
"Saint-Dantin—you know him?"
"I've met him. Tall and dark?"
"Ay. Paul de Vangrisse, Jules de Bergeret, Henri de Chatelin—oh, I can't tell you! They are all charming!"
"And the ladies?"
"Also charming. Did you ever meet Clothilde de Chaucheron, or Julie de Marcherand?Ah, voilà ce qui fait ressouvenir!I count thatrondeauone of my most successful efforts. You shall hear it some time or other."
"Thatwhat?" ejaculated Tom, sitting upright in his surprise.
"Arondeau: 'To the Pearl that Trembles in her Ear.' I would you could have seen it."
"Which? Therondeau?"
"The pearl, man! Therondeauyou shall most assuredly see."
"Merciful heaven!" gasped Tom. "Arondeau! Philip—poet!Sacr-ré mille petits cochons!"
"Monsieur dines at home this evening?" asked François.
Philip sat at his dressing-table, busy with many pots and his face. He nodded.
"The uncle of Monsieur receives, without doubt?"
"A card-party," said Philip, tracing his eyebrows with a careful hand.
François skipped to the wardrobe and flung it open. With a finger to his nose he meditated aloud.
"The blue and silver ...un peu trop soigné. The orange ...peu convenable. The purple the purpleessayons!"
Philip opened the rouge-jar.
"The grey I wore at De Flaubert's last month."
François clapped a hand to his head.
"Ah, sot!" he apostrophised himself. "Voilà qui est très bien." He dived into the wardrobe, emerging presently with the required dress. He laid it on the bed, stroking it lovingly, and darted away to a large chest. From it he brought forth the pink and silver waistcoat that De Bergeret had admired, and the silver lace. Then he paused. "Les bas?... Les bas aux oiseaux-mouches ... où sont-ils?" He peered into a drawer, turning over neat piles of stockings. A convulsion of fury seemed to seize him, and he sped to the door. "Ah,sapristi! Coquin! Jacques!"
In answer to his frenzied call came the cadaverous one, shivering. François seized him by the arm and shook him.
"Thou misbegotten son of a toad!" he raved. "Where is the small box I bade you guard with your life? Where is it, I say. Thou—"
"I gave it into your hands," said Jacques sadly. "Into your hands, your very hands, in this room here by the door! I swear it."
"Swear it? What is it to me, your swear? I say I have not seen the box! At Dover, what did I do?Nom d'un nom, did I not say to you, lose thy head sooner than that box?" His voice rose higher and higher. "And now, where is it?"
"I tell you I gave it you! It is this bleak country that has warped your brain. Never did the box leave my hands until I gave it into yours!"
"And I say you did not!Saperlipopette, am I a fool that I should forget? Now listen to what you have done! You have lost the stockings of Monsieur! By your incalculable stupidity, the stupidity of a pig, an ass—"
"Sacré nom de Dieu!Am I to be disturbed by your shrieking?" Philip had flung down the haresfoot. He slewed round in his chair. "Shut the door! Is it that you wish to annoy my uncle that you shout and scream in his house?" His voice was thunderous.
François spread out his hands.
"M'sieur, I ask pardon! It is thisâne, this carelessgaillard—"
"Mais, m'sieur!" protested Jacques. "It is unjust; it is false!"
"Ecoutez donc, m'sieur!" begged François, as the stern grey eyes went from his face to that of the unhappy Jacques. "It is the band-box that contains your stockings—the stockingsaux oiseaux-mouches! Ah, would that I had carried it myself! Would that—"
"Would that you would be quiet!" said Philip severely. "If either of you have lost those stockings ..." He paused, and once more his eyes travelled from one to the other. "I shall seek another valet."
François became tearful.
"Ah, no, no, m'sieur! It is thisimbécile, thiscrapaud—"
"M'sieu, je vous implore—"
Philip pointed dramatically across the room. Both men looked fearfully in the direction of that accusing finger.
"Ah!" François darted forward. "La voilà!What did I say?" He clasped the box to his breast. "What did I say?"
"But it is not so!" cried Jacques. "What did you say? You said you had not seen the box! What didIsay? I said—"
"Enough!" commanded Philip. "I will not endure this bickering! Be quiet, François! Little monkey that you are!"
"M'sieur!" François was hurt. His sharp little face fell into lines of misery.
"Little monkey," continued Philip inexorably, "with more thought for your chattering than for my welfare."
"Ah, no, no, m'sieur! I swear it is not so! By the—"
"I do not want your oaths," said Philip cruelly. "Am I to wait all night for my cravat, while you revile the good Jacques?"
François cast the box from him.
"Ah,misérable! The cravat!Malheureux, get thee gone!" He waved agitated hands at Jacques. "You hinder me! You retard me! You upset Monsieur!Va-t-en!"
Jacques obeyed meekly, and Philip turned back to the mirror. To him came François, wreathed once more in smiles.
"He means well,ce bon Jacques," he said, busy with the cravat. "But he issot, you understand,très sot!" He pushed Philip's chin up with a gentle hand. "He annoys m'sieur,ah oui! But he is a goodgarçon, when all is said."
"It is you who annoy me," answered Philip. "Not so tight, not so tight! Do you wish to choke me?"
"Pardon, m'sieur! No, it is not François who annoys you!Ah, mille fois non!François—perhaps he is a little monkey, if m'sieur says so, but he is a very good valet,n'est-ce pas? A monkey, if m'sieur pleases, but very clever with a cravat. M'sieur has said it himself."
"You are a child," said Philip. "Yes, that is very fair." He studied his reflection. "I am pleased with it."
"Aha!" François clasped his hands delightedly. "M'sieur is no longer enraged!Voyons, I go to fetch the vest of m'sieur!"
Presently, kneeling before his master and adjusting his stockings, he volunteered another piece of information.
"Me, I have been in this country before. I understand well the ways of it. I understand the English, oh,de part en part! I know them for a foolish race,en somme—saving always m'sieur, who is more French than English—but never, never have I had the misfortune to meet so terrible an Englishman as this servant of m'sieur's uncle, this Moggat.Si entêté, si impoli!He looks on me with a suspicion! I cannot tell m'sieur of his so churlish demeanour! He thinks, perhaps, that I go to take his fine coat. Bah! I spit upon it! I speak to him as m'sieur has bid me—très doucement. He pretends he cannot understand what it is I say! Me, who speak Englishaussi bien que le Français! Deign to enter into these shoes, m'sieur! I tell him I hold him in contempt! He makes areniflementin his nose, and he mutters 'damned leetle frog-eater!'Grand Dieu, I could have boxed his ears, the impudent!"
"I hope you did not?" said Philip anxiously.
"Ah, bah! Would I so demean myself, m'sieur? It is I who am of a peaceable nature,n'est-ce pas? But Jacques—voyons, c'est autre chose! He is possessed of the hot temper,ce pauvreJacques. I fear for that Moggat if he enrages our Jacques." He shook his head solemnly, and picked up the grey satin coat. "If m'sieur would find it convenient to rise? Ah,bien!" He coaxed Philip into the coat, bit by bit. "I say to you, m'sieur, I am consumed of an anxiety. Jacques, he is a veritable fire-eater when he is roused, not like me, who am alwaysdoux comme un enfant. I think, perhaps, he will refuse to remain in the house with this pig of a Moggat."
Philip shook out his ruffles.
"I have never noticed that Jacques showed signs of a so violent temper," he remarked.
"But no! Of a surety, he would not exhibit his terrible passion to m'sieur! Is it that I should permit him?"
"Well," Philip slipped a ring on to his finger, "I am sorry for Jacques, but he must be patient. Soon I shall go to a house of my own."
François' face cleared as if by magic.
"M'sieur is kind! A house of his own.Je me rangerai bien!M'sieur contemplates amariage, perhaps?"
Philip dropped his snuff-box.
"Que diable—?" he began, and checked himself. "Mind your own business, François!"
"Ah, pardon, m'sieur!" replied the irrepressible François. "I but thought that m'sieur had the desire to wed, that he should return to England so hurriedly!"
"Hold your tongue!" said Philip sharply. "Understand me, François, I'll have no meddlingbavardageabout me either to my face or below stairs!C'est entendu?"
"But yes, m'sieur," said François, abashed. "It is that my tongue runs away with me."
"You'd best keep a guard over it," answered Philip curtly.
"Yes, m'sieur!" Meekly he handed Philip his cane and handkerchief. Then, as his master still frowned, "M'sieur is still enraged?" he ventured.
Philip glanced down at him. At the sight of François' anxious, naïve expression, the frown faded, and he laughed.
"You are quite ridiculous," he said.
François broke into responsive smiles at once.
But when Philip had rustled away to join his uncle, the little valet nodded shrewdly to himself and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
"En vérité, c'est une femme," he remarked. "C'est ce que j'ai cru."
François endured the detestable Moggat for a week. He was then rewarded for his patience by the news that Philip was shortly to move into a small house in Curzon Street, which belonged to a friend of Tom. This gentleman consented to let his house for the space of two months, as he was going abroad for that time. Philip went to inspect the prospective abode, and found it to be furnished in excellent style. He closed with its owner and went back to Half-Moon Street to break the joyful news to François. From that moment the excitable valet's spirits soared high. He would manage the affairs of the house for M'sieur; he would find M'sieur achef. Philip was content to waive responsibility. François sallied forth with the air of one about to conquer, to find, so he told Philip, the son of his aunt, a very fairchefand a goodgarçon. Philip had no idea that François possessed any relations, much less one in London. When he said this, François looked very waggish, and admitted that he himself had forgotten the existence of this cousin until the moment when M'sieur told him of the new home.
"Then,subitement, I remember, for m'sieur will require achefis it not so?"
"Assuredly," said Philip. "But your cousin may not wish to take service with me, in which case I shall seek an English cook."
"An English cook? Ah, bah! Is it that I would permit m'sieur to be so ill served? No! M'sieur shall have a Frenchchef, bien sûr. What does an Englishman know of thecuisine? Is m'sieur to be insulted by the tasteless, watery vegetables of such as the wife of Moggat? No! I go to find my cousin!"
"Very well," said Philip.
"And then we have a householdbien tenu. It is our poor Jacques who could not support an Englishman in the house."
"I hope I am not to be excluded?" smiled Philip.
"M'sieur se moque de moi!Is it that m'sieur is English? M'sieur istout comme un Français." He bustled away, full of importance.
The cousin was forthcoming, a stout, good-tempered soul, who rejoiced in the name of Marie-Guillaume. François exhibited him with pride, and he was engaged. That ended all Philip's responsibility. François gathered up the reins of government, and in a week they were installed in Curzon Street. Philip had done no more than say that he wished to enter his new abode on Thursday. On Thursday he went out to Ranelagh; when he returned to Half-Moon Street he found that his baggage had gone. He took his leave of Tom, and walked up the road and round the corner, into Curzon Street. His house was as neat as a new pin; his baggage was unpacked; François was complacent. They might have lived in the house for months; there was no disorder, no fuss, none of the slow settling down. François, Jacques and Marie-Guillaume had fitted into their respective niches in one short hour. Philip was moved to inform François that he was a treasure.
That evening he went to a ball given by the Duchess of Queensberry. And there he met Cleone, for the first time since his return to England.
The Duchess welcomed him effusively, for already Philip was apersona gratain Society, and much sought after by hostesses. Tom had lost no time in introducing him to the Fashionable World. The ladies were captivated by his French air, and ogled him shamelessly. Then men found that he was, for all his graces, singularly modest and unaffected at heart, and they extended the hand of friendship towards him. People began to look for him, and to be disappointed if he were absent.
Until now, however, Philip had seen nothing of Cleone, but on all sides he had heard of her. She was, he learned, London's newest beauty.
She was dancing when Philip saw her first, smiling up at her partner with blue eyes that seemed bluer than ever, and lips that lay in a happy curve. Her golden hair was unpowdered and piled in curls upon the top of her head. Philip thought she was more beautiful than ever.
He stood apart, watching her. She had not seen him; she was not even thinking of him; those eyes were clear and joyous. Who was her partner? Brainless-looking fool! Simpering ninny! Ay, that was all she cared for! Philip's hand clenched slowly on his snuff-box.
"Aha, Jettan! You have espied the lovely Cleone?"
Philip turned. Lord Charles Fairfax stood at his elbow.
"Yes," he said.
"But how stern and forbidding!" exclaimed Fairfax. "What ails you?"
Philip's mouth lost its hard line.
"I am struck dumb," he answered gaily. "Can you wonder at it?"
"So are we all. She is very beautiful, is she not?"
"Ravishing!" agreed Philip. He saw Cleone's partner lead her to a chair. "Will you present me?"
"What! And destroy my own chances? We have heard of your killing ways with the fair sex!"
"I protest I have been maligned!" cried Philip. "I do implore your mercy! Present me!"
"Against my will, then!" said his lordship roguishly. He walked forward to where Cleone sat.
"Mistress Cleone, have you no smile for the humblest of your admirers?"
Cleone turned her head.
"Oh, Lord Charles! Give you good even, sir! Do you know you have not been near me the whole evening? I am monstrous hurt, I assure you!"
"Dear lady, how was I to come near you?" protested Fairfax. "Until this moment you have been surrounded."
Cleone gave a happy little laugh.
"I am sure 'tis untrue, sir! You delight in teasing me!" Her eyes wandered past him to Philip.
Fairfax drew him forward.
"Mistress Cleone, may I present one who is newly come from Paris, and is, he swears, struck dumb by your beauty? Mr. Jettan, of whom we all know some naughty tales!"
The colour drained from Cleone's cheeks. She felt faint all at once, and her fingers gripped together over her fan. For one moment she thought she must be mistaken. This was not Philip, this foppish gentleman who stood bowing so profoundly! Heavens, he was speaking! ItwasPhilip! How could she mistake that square chin?
"Mademoiselle, this is a scarce-hoped-for honour," he said. "I have watched and I have hungered. Lord Charles took pity on me, for which I shall never cease to thank him."
Cleone tried to answer, and failed. Dazedly she stared at him, from the powdered curls of his wig to the diamond buckles on his shoes. Philip!Philip!Philip in stiff silks and laces! Philip patched and painted! Philip with jewels scattered about his person, and polished nails! Was she dreaming? This foppish gentleman her blunt Philip? It was incredible, impossible! What was he saying now?
"I little thought to find you here, mademoiselle! You are with Madame Charteris, no doubt?"
Cleone collected her scattered wits. An awful numbness was stealing over her.
"No, I—I am with my aunt, Lady Malmerstoke," she answered.
"Lady Malmerstoke?..." Philip raised his quizzing-glass with one delicate white hand, and through it scanned the room. "Ah yes, the lady in the apple-green toilette! I remember her well, that lady."
"Oh—do you—do you know her?" asked Cleone. She could not drag her eyes from his face.
"I had the felicity of meeting her some nights ago. I forget where."
"R—really?" Cleone decided that this was a nightmare.
Philip sat down beside her.
"You have been long in town, mademoiselle? You find all this very fatiguing, no doubt?" He waved a languid hand.
Indignation was dispersing the numbness. How dared Philip drawl at her like this? How dared he behave as though they were strangers?
"I have been in London nigh on a month. I do not find it fatiguing at all. I enjoy it."
Slowly the straight brows rose.
"But how refreshing!" said Philip. "When everyone isennuyéàl'agonie, how delightful to meet one who frankly enjoys." He looked at her admiringly. "And enjoyment becomes you better than boredom becomes other women."
Cleone felt that she was drifting further and further into the nightmare.
"I am happy to find favour in your eyes, sir. When did you return from Paris?"
"A fortnight since. In a fog which chilled me to the marrow. Almost I fled back to France. But now"—he bowed gracefully—"I thank a kindly Fate which forbade me to retreat thus precipitately."
"Indeed?" said Cleone tartly. "How do you find Sir Maurice?"
"As yet I have not found him," replied Philip. There was a laugh at the back of his eyes. How dared he laugh at her? "I have written to beg him to honour my house with his presence."
"You do not propose to go to him?" Cleone's voice trembled.
Philip started.
"Mademoiselle speaksen plaisantant? The country in this weather?" He shuddered.
"I see," said Cleone, and thought that she spoke the truth. Her foot tapped the ground angrily. Philip eyed it through his glass.
"That little foot ..." he said softly. It was withdrawn. "Ah, cruel! It inspired me with—I think—a madrigal. Cased in silver satin.... Ah!"
"It pleases you to make merry of my foot, sir?"
"Jamais de ma vie!" Philip threw out his hands. "It is neither food for merriment nor sighs. It is food for pure joy. My eye,chère mademoiselle, is susceptible to beauty, be it beauty of face, or beauty of foot; the eye whispers to the brain, and a madrigal blossoms. I dare swear you have listened to an hundred such? Everywhere I have heard tell of your conquests until I am nigh dead with jealousy."
"How very absurd!" tittered Cleone.
"Absurd? Ah, if I could think that!"
"I do not understand you, sir!"
"I can only beg that I, too, may worship at those little feet."
"Mr. Jettan, I can only beg that you will cease to make yourself ridiculous."
"If it is ridiculous to adore, then must I refuse to obey you, fairest. For the sake of one smile, all would I do, save that which is without my power."
Cleone's eyes glittered.
"You have become very adept at flattery, sir."
"But no! Flattery shall never be among my accomplishments, even were it necessary, which here"—he smiled ardently—"it most assuredly is not."
"You surprise me, sir! I thought Paris to be the home of flattery."
"On l'a diffamée.Paris teaches appreciation."
"La!" Cleone, too, could be affected. "You go too deep for me, Mr. Jettan! I fear I am no match for your wit. I am but newly come from the country." The words bit.
"It is almost inconceivable," he said, studying her with the air of a connoisseur.
"Almost as inconceivable as the fact that little more than six months ago you despised all this!" She made a gesture with her fan towards his shimmering coat.
"Was it only six months? It seems to belong to another life. You remember so well, mademoiselle."
"I?" Cleone saw her mistake, and made haste to cover it. "No, sir. It is dear Sir Maurice who remembers." Her eyes sought his face for some change of expression. But not an eyelash flickered; Mr. Jettan was still smiling.
"Now I am desolated!" he sighed. "Mademoiselle Cleone does not remember the manner of my going? But I see that it is so. She is blessed with forgetfulness."
Cleone's heart leaped. Was there a note ofpique, of hurt, in the smooth voice?
"My memory is not of the longest either, mademoiselle, but I am sure that I am indebted to you."
"Really? I think you must be mistaken, sir."
"It is possible," he bowed. "Yet I seem to recollect that 'twas you who bade me go—to learn to be a gentleman."
Cleone laughed carelessly.
"Did I?—It is so long ago, I have forgotten. And—and here is Mr. Winton come to claim me!"
Philip glanced round quickly. Young James Winton was threading his way towards them. Philip sprang up.
"James!" He held out his hands to the puzzled youth. "You have forgotten, James? And it is, so Mademoiselle tells me, but six months since I saw you every day."
Winton stared. Then suddenly he grasped Philip's jewelled hand.
"Jettan—Philip! Merciful heavens, man, is it indeed you?"
"He is quite transformed, is he not?" said Cleone lightly. A little barb was piercing her heart that Philip should show such pleasure at seeing James, and merely bored affectation with her.
Philip's gay laugh rang out.
"I shall write a sonnet in melancholy vein," he promised. "A sonnet to "Friends Who Knew Me Not." It will be achef-d'œuvre, and I shall send it you tied with a sprig of myrtle."
Winton stepped back the better to observe him.
"Thunder and turf, tis marvellous! What's this about a sonnet? Don't tell me ye have turned poet!"
"In Paris they do not love my verses," mourned Philip. "They would say, 'No,le petit Philippe se trompe.' But you shall see! Where are you staying?"
"With Darchit—in Jermyn Street. I came to London in my lady's train." He bowed to Cleone.
Philip's eyes narrowed.
"Aha! James, you will come to a card-party that I am giving to-morrow? I am at 14 Curzon Street."
"Thank you very much, I shall be delighted. Have you set up a house of your own?"
"Sir Humphrey Grandcourt has hired his house to me for a month or so. Myménagewill amuse you. I am ruled by my valet, the redoubtable François."
"A French valet!"
"But yes! He would allow no English servant to insult me with his boorishness, so I have his cousin forchef." He threw a laughing glance at Cleone. "You would smile, Mademoiselle, could you but hear his so fierce denunciation of the English race."
Cleone forced a laugh.
"I suppose he does not regard you as English, Mr. Jettan?"
"If I suggest such a thing he accuses me of mocking him. Ah, there is Miss Florence who beckons me! Mademoiselle will excuse me?" He bowed with a great flourish. "I shall hope to be allowed to wait on madame, your aunt. James, do not forget! To-morrow at 14 Curzon Street!" He swept round on his heel and went quickly to where Mistress Florence Farmer was seated. Cleone watched him kiss the lady's plump hand, and saw the ogling glances that Florence sent him. Desperately she sought to swallow the lump in her throat. She started to flirt with the adoring James. Out of the corner of his eye Philip watched her.
Scalding tears dropped on to Cleone's pillow that night. Philip had returned, indifferent,blasé, even scornful! Philip who had once loved her so dearly, Philip who had once been so strong and masterful, was now a dainty, affected Court gallant. Why, why had she sent him away? And, oh, how dared he treat her with that mocking admiration? Suddenly Cleone sat up.
"I hate him!" she told the bed-post. "I hate him, and hate him, and hate him."
Philip was smiling when François disrobed him, a smile that held much of tenderness.
"Cela marche," decided François. "I go to have a mistress."