The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Transformation of Philip Jettan, by Georgette Heyer.

If you searched among the Downs in Sussex, somewhere between Midhurst and Brighthelmstone, inland a little, and nestling in modest seclusion between two waves of hills, you would find Little Fittledean, a village round which three gentlemen had built their homes. One chose the north side, half a mile away, and on the slope of the Downs. He was Mr. Winton, a dull man with no wife, but two children, James and Jennifer. The second built his house west of the village, not far from the London Road and Great Fittledean. He was one Sir Thomas Jettan. He chose his site carefully, beside a wood, and laid out gardens after the Dutch style. That was way back in the last century when Charles the Second was King, and what had then been a glaring white erection, stark-naked and blatant in its sylvan setting, was now, some seventy years later, a fair place, creeper-hung, and made kindly by the passing of the years. The Jettan who built it became inordinately proud of the house. Never a day passed but he would strut round the grounds, looking at the nude structure from a hundred different points of vantage. It was to be the country seat of the Jettans in their old age; they were to think of it almost as they would think of their children. It was never to be sold; it was to pass from father to son and from son to grandson through countless ages. Nor must it accrue to a female heir, be she never so direct, for old Tom determined that the name of Jettan should always be associated with the house.

Old Tom propounded these notions to the whole countryside. All his friends and his acquaintances were shown the white house and told the tale of its owner's past misdemeanours and his present virtue—a virtue due, he assured them, to the possession of so fair an estate. No more would he pursue the butterfly existence that all his ancestors had pursued before him. This house was his anchor and his interest; he would rear his two sons to reverence it, and it might even be that the tradition which held every Jettan to be a wild fellow at heart should be broken at last.

The neighbours laughed behind their hands at old Tom's childishness. They dubbed the hitherto unnamed house "Tom's Pride," in good-humoured raillery.

Tom Jettan was busy thinking out a suitable name for his home when the countryside's nickname came to his ears. He was not without humour in spite of his vanity, and when the sobriquet had sunk into his brain, he chuckled deep in his chest, and slapped his knee in appreciation. Not a month later the neighbours were horrified to find, cunningly inserted in the wrought-iron gates of the white house, a gilded scroll bearing the legend, "Jettan's Pride." No little apprehension was felt amongst them at having their secret joke thus discovered and utilised, and those who next waited on Tom did so with an air of ashamed nervousness. But Tom soon made it clear that, far from being offended, he was grateful to them for finding an appropriate name for his home.

His hopeful prophecy concerning the breaking of tradition was not realised in either of his sons. The elder, Maurice, sowed all the wild oats of which he was capable before taking up his abode at the Pride; the other, Thomas, never ceased sowing wild oats, and showed no love for the house whatsoever.

When old Tom died he left a will which gave Maurice to understand that if, by the time he was fifty years of age, he still refused to settle down at the Pride, it was to pass to his brother and his brother's heirs.

"For damme if I do, my boy! The old man must have lost his faculties to expect a Jettan to live in this hole! I tell ye flat, Maurice, I'll not have the place. 'Tis you who are the elder, and you must assume the—the responsibilities!" At that he fell a-chuckling, for he was an irrepressible scamp.

"Certainly I shall live here," answered Maurice. "Three months here, and nine months—not here. What's to stop me?"

At that Tom burst out laughing, but checked himself hurriedly as he met his brother's reproving eye.

"God save us, and the old gentleman but three days dead! Not that I meant any disrespect, y'know. Faith, the old man 'ud be the first to laugh with me, stap me if he wouldn't!" He stifled another laugh, and shrugged his shoulders. "Or he would before he went crazy-pious over this devilish great barn of a house. You'll never have the money to keep it, Maurry," he added cheerfully, "let alone a wife."

"Oh ay! But it'll be gone after a week's play! God ha' mercy, Maurry, do ye hope to husband it?"

"Blister me, but I believe the place is turning you like the old gentleman! Now, Maurry, Maurry, stiffen your back, man!"

"It'll take more than the Pride to reform me, Tom. I'm thinking that the place is too good to sell or throw away."

"If I could lay my hand on two thousand guineas," said Tom, "anyone could have the Pride for me!"

"Why, Tom, all I've got's yours, you know very well! Take what you want—two thousand or twenty."

"Devilish good of you, Maurry, but I'll not sponge on you yet. No, don't start to argue with me, for my head's not strong enough what with one thing and another. Tell me more of this wife of yours. Who is it to be?"

"I haven't decided," replied Maurice. He yawned slightly. "There are so many to choose from."

"Ay—you're an attractive devil—'pon my word you are! What d'ye say to Lucy Farmer?"

"No, and marriage is so damned final! 'Tisn't as though ye could live together for a month or so before ye made up your minds. I doubt the girl would not consent to that."

"And if she did consent, one would not desire to wed her," remarked Maurice. "A pity. No, I believe I could not live with Jane."

"The truth of it is, Maurry, we Jettans must marry for love. There's not one of us ever married without it, whether for money or no."

"'Tis so unfashionable," objected Maurice. "One marries for convenience. One may have fifty different loves."

"What! All at once? I think you'd find that a trifle inconvenient, Maurry! Lord! just fancy fifty loves, oh, the devil! And three's enough to drive one crazed, bruise me if 'tis not."

"Gad no! Fifty loves spread over a lifetime, and you're not bound to one of them. There's bliss, Tom, you rogue!"

Thomas shook a wise finger at him, his plump, good-humoured face solemn all at once.

"And not one of them's the true love, Maurry. For if she were, faith, she'd not be one of fifty! Now, you take my advice, lad, and wait. Damme, we'll not spoil the family record!

"I don't know that it's true about the staid old age, though. Maybe 'tis only those who wed for love who acquire virtue. Anyway, you'll not break the second maxim, Maurry."

"If it comes to prevention, old sobersides, I'm game. I'll make an uproar in the church and carry off the bride. Gad, but 'twould be amusing! Carry off one's brother's bride, under his stern nose. Devil take it, Maurry, that's just what your nose is! I never thought on't before—stern, grim, old—now, steady, Tom, my boy, or you'll be laughing again with the old gentleman not yet underground!"

"But, Tom, 'tis very well for you to counsel me not to wed without love! I must marry, for 'tis certain you'll not, and we must have heirs. What's to be done, I'd like to know?"

"Wait, lad, wait! You're not so old that you can't afford to hold back yet awhile."

"Then you have fifteen years to run before you need settle down. Take my advice, and wait!"

The end of it was that Maurice did wait. For four years he continued to rove through Europe, amusing himself in the usual way of gentlemen of his day, but in 1729 he wrote a long letter from Paris to his brother in London, declaring himself in love, and the lady an angel of goodness, sweetness, amiability, and affection. He said much more in this vein, all of which Tom had to read, yawning and chuckling by turns. The lady was one Maria Marchant. She brought with her a fair dowry and a placid disposition. So Tom wrote off to Maurice at once, congratulating him, and bestowing his blessing on the alliance. He desired his dear old Maurry to quit travelling, and to come home to his affectionate brother Tom.

In a postscript he added that he dropped five hundred guineas at Newmarket, only to win fifteen hundred at dice the very next week, so that had it not been for his plaguey ill-luck in the matter of a small wager with Harry Besham, he would to-day be the most care-free of mortals, instead of a jaded creature, creeping about in terror of the bailiffs from hour to hour.

After that there was no more correspondence. Neither brother felt that there was anything further to be said, and they were not men to waste their time writing to one another for no urgent matter. Thomas thought very little more about Maurice's marriage. He supposed that the wedding would take place in England before many months had gone by; possibly Maurice would see fit to return at once, as he, Tom, had suggested. In the meantime, there was nothing to be done. Tom laid his brother's letter aside, and went on with his ordinary occupations.

He lived in Half-Moon Street. His house was ruled by his cook, the wife of Moggat, his valet-footman. She also ruled the hapless Moggat. Moggat retaliated by ruling his jovial master as far as he was able, so one might really say Mrs. Moggat ruled them all. As Tom was quite unaware of this fact, it troubled him not a whit.

A month after he had answered his brother's letter, Tom was disturbed one morning while he sipped his chocolate with the news that a gentleman wished to speak to him. Tom was in his bed-chamber, his round person swathed in a silken wrapper of astonishing brightness. He had not yet doffed his nightcap, and his wig lay on the dressing-table.

The lean, long Moggat crept in at the door, which he seemed hardly to open, and ahem'd directly behind his master.

Tom was in the act of swallowing his chocolate, and as he had not heard Moggat's slithering approach, the violent clearing of that worthy's throat startled him not a little, and he choked.

Tenderly solicitous, Moggat patted him on the back until the coughs and splutters had abated. Tom bounced round in his chair to face the man.

"Damn and curse it, Moggat! What d'ye mean by it? What d'ye mean by it, I say? Crawling into a room to make a noise at me just as I'm drinking! Yes, sir! Just as I'm drinking! Devil take you! D'ye hear me? Devil take you!"

Moggat listened in mournful silence. When Tom ceased for want of breath, he bowed, and continued as though there had been no interruption.

"A gentleman? Don't you know that gentlemen don't come calling at this hour, ye ninny-pated jackass? Bring me some more chocolate!"

"I tell you no gentleman would disturb another at this hour! Have done now, Moggat!"

"And although I told the gentleman, sir, as how my master was not yet robed and accordingly could not see any visitors, he said it was of no consequence to him whatsoever, and he would be obliged to you to ask him upstairs at once, sir. So I—"

"The gentleman, sir, on my asking what name I was to tell you, gave me to understand that it was of no matter."

"Devil take him! Show him out, Moggat! Like as not 'tis one of these cursed bailiffs. Why, you fool, what d'ye mean by letting him in?"

"The gentleman"—Moggat laid ever so little stress on the word—"is tall, sir, and—er—slim. He is somewhat dark as regards eyes and brows, and he is dressed, if I may say so, exceedingly modishly, with a point-edged hat, and very full-skirted puce coat, laced, French fashion, with—"

"Numskull! D'ye think I want a list of his clothes? Show him out, the swarthy rogue! Show him out!"

"No, sir," said Moggat firmly. "I could not truthfully say that the gentleman blustered. Indeed, sir, if I may say so, I think him a singularly quiet, cool gentleman. Very soft-spoken, sir—oh, very soft-spoken!"

"Take him away!" shouted Tom. "I tell you I'll not be pestered at this hour! I might be asleep, damme! Tell the fellow to come again at a godly time—not at dawn! Now, don't try to argue, Moggat! I tell you, if it were my brother himself, I'd not see him!"

When the door closed behind Moggat, Tom leaned back in his chair and picked up one of his letters. Not five minutes later the door creaked again. Tom turned, to find Moggat at his elbow.

"Hif you please, sir, the gentleman says as how he is your brother," said Moggat gently.

"Thunder an' turf! Maurry! Here, you raving wooden-pate! How dare you leave my brother downstairs? How dare you, I say?" He wrapped himself more tightly in his robe than ever, and dashed headlong out of the room, down the stairs to where Maurice awaited him.

Sir Maurice was standing by the window in the library, drumming his fingers on the sill. At his brother's tempestuous entrance he turned and bowed.

"A nice welcome you give me, Tom! 'Tell him to come again at a godly time—I'd not see him if 'twere my brother himself,' forsooth!"

Thomas hopped across the room and seized both Maurice's long, thin hands in his plump, chubby ones.

"My dear Maurry! My dear old fellow! I'd no notion 'twas you! My dolt of a lackey—but there! When did you arrive in England?"

"A week? What a plague d'ye mean by not coming to me till now, ye rogue?" As he spoke, Tom thrust Maurice into a chair, and himself sat down opposite him, beaming with pleasure.

Maurice leaned back, crossing his legs. A little smile flickered across his mouth, but his eyes were solemn as he answered.

"Wife? Tare an' 'ouns, ye don't waste your time! Where and when did you marry the lady?"

"Three weeks ago, at Paris. Now I have come home to fulfil the last part of the Jettan adage."

"Ay, I'm waiting," said Tom. "What's to do now, then? The country squire, and half a dozen children?"

"I am a married man," replied Maurice. "As such I have—er—learned to guard my tongue. My wife—"

"Maurry, couldn't ye call the lady by her name?" begged Tom. "Faith, I can't bear those two words so often, proud though ye may be of them."

"Lord! I'd made up my mind you'd wed a bold, strapping wench with a saucy smile, Maurry!"

"Ay, ay, Maurry, I know!" hastily interrupted Thomas. "I must see her for myself, so don't spoil the surprise for me, there's a good fellow! Now have you breakfasted? No? Then come upstairs with me. Where's that rascal Moggat? Moggat! Moggat! Ah, there you are! Go and prepare breakfast at once, man! And bring some more chocolate to my room." He wrapped the voluminous robe about him once more, and, seizing his brother by the arm, led him forth to the staircase.

Thus it was that Maurice Jettan brought home his bride. She was a gentle lady, with a sweet disposition; she adored her handsome husband, and duly presented him with a son, Philip. When the babe was shown to him, Tom discovered that he was a true Jettan, with all their characteristics. His father confessed that he saw no resemblance either to himself or to anyone, but he was nevertheless gratified by his brother's remarks. Tom chuckled mightily and prophesied that young Philip would prove himself a Jettan in more ways than one. He hinted at a youth which should surpass his father's in brilliancy, and Maurice smiled, looking proudly down at the red, crumpled face.

"And," concluded Tom, "he'll have a papa who can advise him in all matters of fashion better than any man I know. Why, Maurice, you will show him the fashionable world! You must take care you do not stagnate here. You must not fall out of Society."

For five years he continued to take his place in London Society, but he found that the desire for excitement and gaiety was growing less and less within him. The death of Maria gave this desire the coup de grâce. Maurice took his small son down to the Pride as soon as he had recovered from the first shock of bereavement, and after that for some years he rarely visited London, except sometimes to see his brother or his tailor. Then he seemed to grow restless again, and started to spend more time with Tom. Bit by bit he re-entered the world he had quitted, yet never did he give himself up to it as once he had done. The Pride seemed to call him, and little Philip held his heart with both hands. Thereafter he spent his time between London and the Pride. When he felt restless, he packed his bags and flitted either to London or to Paris; when the restlessness had passed, back he came to the Pride, there to spend two or three peaceful months.

When Philip was eighteen, he took him to London. Philip was very thoroughly bored. Sir Maurice concluded that he was too young to be introduced into Society, and he sent him back to the country, thinking that in two or three years' time the lad would be only too anxious to leave it.

But the years slipped by, and Philip showed no desire to follow in his father's footsteps. He refused to go on the Grand Tour; he cared nothing for Dress or Fashionable Manners; he despised the life of Courts; he preferred to remain in the country, usurping, to a great extent, his father's position as squire. He was now some twenty-three years old, tall and handsome, but, as his father told his uncle, "an unpolished cub."

Two
In Which Is Presented Mistress Cleone Charteris

A while back I spoke of three gentlemen who built their homes round Little Fittledean. Of one I said but little, of the second I spoke at length and to the tune of one whole chapter. It now behoves me to mention the third gentleman, who chose his site on the outskirts of the village, some two miles from Jettan's Pride, and to the east. To reach it you must walk along the main street until the cottages grow sparse and yet more sparse, and the cobblestones and pavement cease altogether. The street turns then into a lane with trees flanking it and grass growing to the sides. A few steps further, and the moss-covered roof of Sharley House peeps above a high holly hedge which screens the place from the passer-by.

There lived Mr. Charteris, and his father and grandfather before him. Mr. Charteris was the happy possessor of a wife and a daughter. It is with the daughter that I am most concerned.

Her name was Cleone, and she was very lovely. She had thick gold curls, eyes of cornflower blue, and a pair of red lips that pouted or smiled in equal fascination. She was just eighteen, and the joy and despair of all the young men of the countryside. Particularly was she the despair of Mr. Philip Jettan.

Philip was head over ears in love with Cleone. He had been so ever since she returned from the convent where she had received a slight education. Before her departure for this convent, she and Philip, James and Jennifer Winton, had played together and quarrelled together since any of them could walk. Then Cleone went away to acquire polish, and the two boys thought very little more about her, until she returned, and then they thought of nothing else but her. The romping playfellow was gone for ever, but in her place was a Vision. Philip and James began to eye one another askance.

Delighted by the new state of affairs, Cleone queened it right royally, and played one young man against the other. But it was not long before she found herself thinking far more about Mr. Jettan than was seemly. He began to haunt her dreams, and when he came to visit the house her heart fluttered a little and showed a tendency to jump into her throat.

Cleone was stern with her heart, for there was much in Mr. Jettan that did not meet with her approval. However masterful and handsome he might be—and Philip was both—he was distressingly boorish in many ways. Before her return to Sharley House Cleone had spent a few months with her aunt, who lived in Town. Several men had made very elegant love to her and showered compliments about her golden head. She had not cared the snap of her fingers for any one of them, but their graceful homage was very gratifying. Philip's speech was direct and purposeful, and his compliments were never neat. His clothes also left much to be desired. Cleone had an eye for colour and style; she liked her cavaliers to be à la mode. Sir Matthew Trelawney, for instance, had affected the most wonderful stockings, clocked with butterflies; Frederick King wore so excellently fitting a coat that, it was said, he required three men to ease him into it. Philip's coat was made for comfort; he would have scorned the stockings of Matthew Trelawney. He even refused to buy a wig, but wore his own brown hair brushed back from his face and tied loosely at his neck with a piece of black ribbon. No powder, no curls, unpolished nails, and an unpainted face—guiltless, too, of even the smallest patch—it was, thought Cleone, enough to make one weep. Nevertheless, she did not weep, because, for one thing, it would have made her eyes red, and another, it would be of very little use. Philip must be reformed, since she—well, since she did not dislike him.

At the present time Philip had just returned from Town, whither he had been sent by his father, ostensibly to transact some business concerning the estate, but really that his unfashionable soul might succumb to the delights of Town. Philip was not aware of this secret purpose, but Cleone knew all about it. She was very fond of Sir Maurice, and he of her. When Sir Maurice saw which way Philip looked for a wife, he was pleased enough, although a Jettan might have cast his eyes much higher. But Sir Maurice, mindful of the old adage, was content to let things run their course. All that worried him was the apparent obduracy of his son in the matter of the first prophecy. He loved Philip, he did not wish to lose him, he liked his companionship, but—"By God, sir, you are a damned dull dog!"

At that young Philip's straight brows drew close over the bridge of his nose, only to relax again as he smiled.

"So it seems," said his father. "And you being yourself have fallen in love with a mighty pretty child; still being yourself, you are like to be left disconsolate."

Philip had flushed slightly at the reference to Cleone. The end of the sentence left him frowning.

"Little Mistress Cleone will have none of you an you fail to mend your ways, my son. Do you not know it? What has that dainty piece to do with a raw clodhopper like yourself?"

"If Mistress Cleone gives me her love it will be for me as I am. She is worthy a man, not a powdered, ruffled beau."

"A man! Sacré tonnerre, 'tis what you are, hein? Philip, child, get you to Town to your uncle and buy a wig."

"Mille diables! You'll to Town as I say, defiant boy! You may finish the business with that scoundrel Jenkins while you are about it!"

He had gone; now he had come back, the business details settled to his satisfaction, but with no wig. Sir Maurice was pleased to see him again, more pleased than he appeared, as Philip was well aware. He listened to what his son had to tell him of Tom Jettan, failed to glean any of the latest society gossip, and dismissed Philip from his presence.

Half an hour later Philip rode in at the gates of Sharley House, sitting straight in his saddle, a pulse in his throat throbbing in anticipation.

Cleone saw him coming. She was seated in the parlour window, embroidering in a languid fashion. Truth to tell, she was tired of her own company and not at all averse from seeing Philip. As he passed the window she bent forward a little, smiling down at him. Philip saw her at once; indeed, he had been eyeing every window of the warm, red house in the hope that she might be sitting in one. He reined in his horse and bowed to her, hat in hand.

Cleone opened the casement wider, leaning over the sill, her golden curls falling forward under the strings of her cap.

"Impudent!" she ended. "I declare I won't see you!" As if to add weight to this statement, she shut the casement and moved away into the room.

Presently, however, she relented, and tripped downstairs to the withdrawing-room, where she found Mr. Jettan paying his respects to her mamma. She curtseyed very demurely, allowed him to kiss the tips of her fingers, and seated herself beside Madam Charteris.

"Well, child, here is Philip returned from Town with not a word to tell us of his gaiety!"

"Tut-tut!" said her mother. "Now, Philip, tell us all! Did you not meet one beauty to whom you lost your heart?"

"No, madam," answered Philip. "The painted society dames attract me not at all." His eyes rested on Cleone as he spoke.

"I dare say you've not yet heard the news?" Cleone said, after a slight pause. "Or did Sir Maurice tell you?"

"It remains to be seen," she replied. "'Tis that Mr. Bancroft is to return! What think you of that?"

"Yes, Henry Bancroft. Is it not exciting? Only think—he has been away nigh on eight years! Why, he must be—" she began to count on her rosy-tipped fingers "—twenty-six, or twenty-seven. Oh, a man! I do so wonder what he is like now!"

"Well, I will tell you. Papa rode over to Great Fittledean two days ago, and he found Sir Harold mightily amused, did he not, Mamma?"

Madam Charteris assented vaguely. She was stitching at a length of satin, content to drop out of the conversation.

"Mr. Bancroft," said Cleone. A smile trembled on her lips. "It seems that Mr. Bancroft has had occasion to fight a duel. Is it not too dreadful?"

"I am sure I do not know why gentlemen must fight. 'Tis very terrible, I think. But, of course, 'tis monstrous gallant and exciting. And poor Mr. Bancroft has been advised to leave London for a while, because some great personage is angered. Papa did not say who was the gentleman he fought, but Sir Harold was vastly amused." She glanced up at Philip, in time to catch sight of the scornful frown on his face. "Oh, Philip, do you know? Have you perhaps heard?"

"No one who has been in Town this last week could fail to have heard," said Philip shortly. Then, very abruptly, he changed the subject.

When Philip came back to the Pride it was close on the dinner hour. He walked slowly upstairs to change his clothes, for on that point Sir Maurice was obdurate. He would not allow buckskins or riding-boots at his table. He himself was fastidious to a fault. Every evening he donned stiff satins and velvets; his thin face was painted, powdered and patched; his wig tied with great precision in the nape of his neck. He walked now with a stick, but his carriage was still fairly upright. The stick was, as Philip told him, a mere affectation.

Philip was rather silent during the first part of the meal, but when the lackeys left the room, and Sir Maurice pushed the port towards him, he spoke suddenly, as if the words had hovered on his tongue for some time.

Sir Maurice selected a nut from the dish before him, cracking it between his long, white fingers.

"I have no doubt I should be vastly entertained," said Sir Maurice. "What's the tale?"

"The fellow is for ever embroiling himself in some low quarrel. This time it is Lady Marchand. Faugh!"

"It's a damned sordid tale, sir, and I'll spare you the details. Lord Marchand and Bancroft fought out at Ipswich. Bancroft wounded him in the lung, and 'tis said he'll not recover."

"The Prince of Wales is furious, as well he might be. And Bancroft brings himself and his morals here."

"And Mr. Jettan is righteously indignant. From which I gather that Mistress Cleone is prepared to welcome this slayer of hearts. You'd best have bought a wig, Philip."

"Faute de mieux. And whence, if I may ask, did you glean all this—sordid information, oh my righteous son?"

"Alack! The saint is still upon his pedestal. In fact, the story was forced upon you. Philip, you enrage me." He looked up and met his son's amused glance. "Yes, child, I am enraged. Pass the wine."

"I'll swear no one ever before possessed so outrageous a sire," he said. "I've heard of some who disinherited their sons for disreputable behaviour, but it seems you are like to disinherit me for irreproachable conduct."

"It's a piquante situation," agreed Sir Maurice. "But I shan't disinherit you."

"Where's the use? With no money you could not hope to—ah—follow in my footsteps. I've a mind to turn you out of the house, though."

"Half a mind," corrected Philip. "The other half, sir, rejoices in my unblemished reputation."

"Sir, were I to break away and become as flighty as you wish, no one would be more aghast than yourself."

"You infer, my son, that I desire you to follow not in my footsteps, but in—let us say, Bancroft's. Nothing could more thoroughly disgust me."

"Certainly. I abhor clumsiness in an affaire." He watched Philip draw back. "An affaire of the heart should be daintily conducted. A Jettan should bear in mind that for him there can be only one love; the others," he waved his hand, "should be treated with the delicacy that they deserve. Above all, they should end lightly. I would have no woman the worse for you, child, but I would have you know women and the world. I would have you experience the pleasures and the displeasures of Polite Society; I would have you taste the joys of Hazard, and the exhilaration of your sword against another's; I would have you take pains in the selection of a cravat, or the designing of a vest; I would have you learn the way to turn a neat compliment and a pretty phrase; above all, I would have you know yourself, your fellow-men, and the world." He paused, studying his son. Then he smiled. "Well? What have you to say to my peroration?"

"Why, sir, that I am spellbound by your fluency. In truth, Father, you have a remarkably beautiful voice."

Three
Mr. Bancroft Brings Trouble into Little Fittledean

On a particularly sunny morning, some five or six days after Mr. Jettan's return from London town, the main street of Little Fittledean was made brighter still by the passage of an Apparition.

The Apparition wore a coat of palest apricot cloth, with a flowered vest of fine brocade, and startling white small-clothes. Red-heeled shoes were on his feet, and his stockings were adorned by sprawling golden clocks. He carried an amber-clouded cane and a jewelled snuff-box, while ever and anon he raised a cobwebby handkerchief to his aristocratic nose. He minced down the street towards the market-place, followed by the awe-stricken glances of an amazed population. The inhabitants of the village had never seen anything so wonderful or so remarkable as this gorgeous gentleman. They watched the high red heels click along the road, and admired the beautiful set of the Apparition's coat. A group of children stopped playing to stare, open-mouthed. The Apparition heeded them not. It may have been that he was oblivious of their existence. Not even when a piping treble requested "John" to "look'ee now at them shoes!" did he show that he realised the presence of anyone but himself in the village. He minced on, very languid, and suitably bored.

Further down the street a gentleman had reined in his horse to speak to a curtseying dame, who plucked shyly at her apron, smiling up at him. Presently he, too, became aware of the sound of clicking heels. Even as the buxom dame gazed past him with wide eyes, he looked up and saw the Apparition.

I would not have you think that the Apparition noticed him. On he went, swinging his cane and yawning.

Sir Maurice turned in his saddle the better to see those pearly small-clothes. His horse cocked both ears inquiringly and blew down his nostrils.

Mr. Bancroft proceeded leisurely towards the market-place. He was very, very bored, and he had walked over from Great Fittledean in search of possible amusement. He almost despaired of finding it, but Fate favoured him.

Crossing the market-place, a basket on her arm and a very becoming hat tied over her curls, was Mistress Cleone. She was tripping along quite unconcernedly, her cheeks just tinged with colour, and her big eyes bluer than ever. Mr. Bancroft lost a little of his languor. It might almost be said that his eye brightened.

Cleone was coming towards him, and it was markedly evident that Mr. Bancroft made no attempt to step aside. On the contrary, he appeared to be engrossed in the contemplation of a cat right away on his left. Cleone was peeping inside her basket; she did not perceive Mr. Bancroft until she had walked into him. Then she gave a startled cry, fell back, and stared.

Mr. Bancroft was profuse in his apologies. He swept off his hat and made her a low bow, sinking back and back on his bent left leg.

Mr. Bancroft said that it was. He was very modest about it, and he dubbed himself a clodhopping oaf so to have discommoded Cleone.

Cleone dimpled, curtseyed, and prepared to go on her way. This, however, Mr. Bancroft would not allow. He insisted on taking her basket, which, he protested, was monstrous heavy for her fair hands to support.

"A stranger! Why, madam, is it likely that once I had seen I could ever forget your sweet face?" cried Mr. Bancroft. "Those blue eyes, madam, left a deep imprint on my soul; those soft lips—"

"But," interrupted Cleone, blushing, "my name escaped your memory. Confess, Mr. Bancroft, it is indeed so?"

"A name—bah! What is it? 'Tis the face that remains with me. Names do, indeed, escape me. How could a mere name conjure up this fair image?" He bowed slightly. "Your name should be Venus, madam."

"Sir!" Cleone was shocked. "I am Cleone Charteris, Mr. Bancroft," she said primly.

"You did not know it. And, indeed, I am prodigiously hurt and offended that you should have forgot me."

"Forgot you?" Mr. Bancroft was derisive. "Forget the little nymph who so tormented me in my youth? Fie on you, madam!"

"Oh, I did not! How can you say so, sir? 'Twas you who were always so provoking! Do you remember how we played? You and Jennifer and I and Philip—oh, and James."

"The games I remember," he answered. "But Jennifer, no. And who are Philip and James?"

"You've a monstrous short memory," reproved Cleone. "Of course you remember Philip Jettan?"

"How could I hope to remember anyone but your fair self?" he protested. "Could I be sensible of another's presence when you were there?"

Cleone giggled. She found Mr. Bancroft's compliments very entertaining and novel.

"Alas!" sighed Mr. Bancroft. "I would it were a mile away." He opened the gate and held it for her, bowing. "May I pay my respects to Madam Charteris?" he begged.

They found madam in the hall, speaking to one of the servants. When she saw the resplendent Mr. Bancroft she gasped, and fell back a pace.

"I dare not hope for recognition, madam," he bowed. "Henry Bancroft begs you will allow him to kiss your hand."

Bancroft kissed the tips of her fingers, holding them lightly to his mouth with two fingers and a thumb.

"I met Mistress Cleone in the market-place," he told her. "Conceive my surprise, madam, my joyful ecstasy!"

"Mr. Bancroft was so kind as to relieve me of my basket," explained her daughter. "He pretends that he had not forgot me, Mamma! But he cannot deceive me."

"He never sought to deceive you, Mistress Cleone. He spoke sooth when he said your image had remained with him throughout."

"Take him into the garden, Cleone," begged madam. "He will wish to see your papa."

Twenty minutes later Sir Maurice walked into the rose-garden to find Bancroft and Cleone seated in an arbour engaged in close converse, while Mr. Charteris nipped off the dead flowers nearby.

"Good day, Sir Maurice! What a very pleasant, warm day it is, to be sure! Did you ride over to see us?"

"I met that—that rainbow in the village. What a plague is it? What does he do here?"

Mr. Charteris' chubby countenance was wreathed in a great, sly smile, suspiciously like a grin.

"Have you ever seen aught to equal it?" he chuckled. "'Tis young Bancroft—in seclusion."

"Oh, but Sir Maurice! A mighty soft-spoken youth—a polished gentleman, I assure you."

"Polished coxcomb!" snapped Sir Maurice. "Confound his impudence!" He turned and walked towards the arbour.

"I hear you intend to honour Fittledean for some few weeks?" he said. An inward laugh seemed to shake him. "You must meet my son, Philip."

"Nothing could give me more pleasure," Bancroft assured him. "I shall hope to do so at once. I am transported to meet such old friends, and to find that one"—he bowed to Cleone—"had not forgot me."

"H'm!" said Sir Maurice cryptically. Suddenly he smiled upon the younger man. "I have ridden over to beg Mr. Charteris to honour me at dinner on Wednesday—"

"—with madam and Cleone. You'll come, my dear? I have already spoken to your mamma."

He patted the little hand. Then he again transferred his attention to Mr. Bancroft.

"It is prodigious amiable of you, sir. I hasten to accept. On Wednesday, I think you said? With all the pleasure on earth!"

"Cleone, my dear, give me your arm as far as that rose-bush. You shall choose me a button-hole, if you will. No, no, Charteris, with her own fair fingers!" He bore Cleone away to the other end of the garden, leaving Mr. Bancroft disconsolate. When they were out of hearing Sir Maurice looked down into the roguish blue eyes. "My dear, you are a minx."

"Of course not," agreed Sir Maurice. "Now what is the game? It's to make Philip jealous, eh?"

"My love, I know all about you, for I am an old man. Make Philip jealous by all means."

"Of course not. But I think, with you, that it would be a very good plan. The boy is too stolid and cock-sure."

"So if you shake Philip up from his toes to his head—you'll earn a father's blessing."

"We'll leave it at that," said Sir Maurice. "Now choose me a rose, little witch. Gad, if I were ten years younger I'd make Philip jealous myself!"

Sir Maurice rode home wrapped in thought. Now and again he chuckled softly to himself, but when later he met his son he was as solemn as ever.

Philip came into the library, riding-whip in hand. He had been on the fields all the morning, and Sir Maurice eyed his boots with disfavour. Philip sank into a chair.

"Two of the big meadows are cut, sir. We should finish by next week." He glanced anxiously out of the window. "I hope the rain holds off."

"I am not so sure. Last summer the hay was black. Did you—er—did you ride into the village?"

"Confound him!" growled Philip, as if his worst fears were realised. "What's he like?"

"He is about your height—perhaps a little taller. He—ah—seems to have a soft tongue and an engaging manner."

"No, I suppose not," said Sir Maurice innocently. "He is some six or seven years older than you, is he not?"

"Only five? Of course, he looks and seems older, but he has seen more of the world, which accounts for it."

To this Philip vouchsafed no answer at all, but he looked at his father with some suspicion. Sir Maurice allowed two or three minutes to elapse before he spoke again.

"What's that, sir? Dines here, and on Wednesday? Surely you did not invite the fellow?"

"It remains to be seen." Sir Maurice hid a smile. "Bancroft is most desirous of meeting you."

"More like he wishes to pursue his acquaintance with Cl—Mistress Cleone," he retorted.

"If I find him annoying Cleone with his damned officious attentions, I'll—I'll—"

At that Philip stalked out of the room, leaving his father a prey to indecent mirth.

Four
The Trouble Comes to a Head

At half-past five on Wednesday Mr. Henry Bancroft was ushered into the withdrawing-room at the Pride. He was, as he had intended he should be, the last to arrive.

Sir Maurice stood in front of the empty grate, talking to Mr. Charteris; madam sat on a couch, her daughter beside her, and Philip nearby. They all looked up as Mr. Bancroft was announced, and Philip rose, for the first time in his life acutely conscious of an ill-fitting coat and unpowdered hair.

Mr. Bancroft was a dream of lilac and rose. He might have been dressed for a ball, thought Cleone. Diamonds and rubies flashed from his buckles, and from his cravat; a diamond clasp was above the riband that tied his wig. He minced forward daintily and bowed, one be-ringed hand over his heart.

"Ah, Mr. Bancroft! I need not present you to the ladies, I know." He paused to allow Bancroft to throw a languishing glance towards the couch. "I think you and my son are not altogether unknown to one another?"

Bancroft turned on his heel to face Philip. He bowed again, slightly flourishing his handkerchief.

"I am very pleased to meet you again, sir," he said, determined to be polite to this most obnoxious guest. "Do you—er—intend to make a long stay?"

"I had thought not, sir, but now"—another glance was cast at Cleone—"I think—perhaps—!" He smiled, running quick, appraising eyes over Philip's person. "Do you know, sir, I swear I'd not have known you. You have grown prodigiously."

"I thank you for the past tense, Mistress Cleone! At least, I am no longer so aged."

"Oh, I am monstrous flattered, sir!" Cleone spread out her fan and held it before her face.

"La!" said Madam Charteris. "How can you say such things, Mr. Bancroft? I declare you will make my daughter vain!"

"Vanity, madam, mates not with such beauty as that of your daughter," he retaliated. To the right he could see Philip, glowering, and his mischievous soul laughed. Then Sir Maurice claimed his attention, and he turned away.

Philip walked to the couch and stood behind it, resting his arm on the back. He leaned over Cleone with an air of possession.

"Why, sir, are you at variance with him in the matter of my looks?" she asked, and thereby bereft him of speech. Her smile turned to a look of reproach. "'Tis your cue, sir; am I to be slighted?"

"You know—what I think of you, Cleone. I cannot—mouth what I feel—in pretty phrases."

"What, here? Not I! I am not one to sing your charms in public." He laughed shortly. "So that is what you desire?"

Philip straightened at once, but he still stood behind her. Bancroft met his eyes and was quick to read the challenge they held. He smiled, twirling his eyeglass.

When dinner was announced, Cleone was talking to Bancroft. It was but natural that he should offer her his arm, but to Philip it seemed a most officious, impudent action. Sir Maurice led Madam Charteris into the dining-room; Mr. Charteris and Philip brought up the rear.

From Philip's point of view the meal was not a success. Seated side by side, Cleone and Bancroft exchanged a flood of conversation. Philip, at the foot of the table, had on his right Mr. Bancroft, and on his left Mr. Charteris. To the latter he made grave conversation. Occasionally Bancroft dragged him into a discussion; once or twice Madam Charteris and Sir Maurice appealed to him. But Cleone seemed unaware of his existence. She was very gay, too; her eyes sparkled and shone, her cheeks were faintly flushed. She answered Mr. Bancroft's sallies with delightful little laughs and applause.

As the dinner proceeded, Philip was made to feel more than ever his own shortcomings. When he looked at Mr. Bancroft's white hands with their highly polished nails, and many rings, he compared them with his strong brown ones, tanned and—coarse? Covertly he inspected them; no, they were better hands than that nincompoop's, but his nails ... bah! only fops such as this puppy polished their nails!...

The lilac satin of Mr. Bancroft's coat shimmered in the light of the candles. How tightly it fitted him across the shoulders! How heavily it was laced, and how full were its skirts! A coat for a drawing-room! Unconsciously Philip squared his shoulders. All that foaming lace ... more suited to a woman than to a man. The quizzing-glass ... abominable affectation! The jewels ... flaunting them in the country! Patched and painted, mincing, prattling puppy-dog! How could Cleone bear him so near, with his fat, soft hands, and his person reeking of some sickly scent?...

Now he was talking of town and its allure, toying with the names of first one celebrity and then another. And Cleone drinking in the silly, smug talk!... Now hints at conquests made—veiled allusions to his own charms. Ape!—truckling, overdressed ape! Suddenly Philip wanted to throw his glass at Bancroft. He choked down the mad impulse, and strove to listen to Mr. Charteris.

Back in the withdrawing-room again it was worse. Sir Maurice asked Cleone to sing, and she went to the spinet. Bancroft followed, to choose her music, to turn the pages, to gaze at her in frank admiration. Damn him, damn him, damn him!

The party came to an end at last; Philip was alone with his father. Sir Maurice leaned his chin in his hand, watching him amusedly. For a long while Philip said nothing, but presently he brought his eyes away from the window and looked at his father.

"And that," he said bitingly, "is what you would have me. A conceited, painted puppy, fawning and leering on every woman that crosses his path!"

"Not at all." Sir Maurice took out his snuff-box and opened it. "'Tis the last thing in the world I would have you."

"I said I would have you a very perfect gentleman, knowing the world and its ways."

"Pardon me! You choose to assume that I thought it. Mr. Bancroft is, as you so truly remark, a conceited, painted puppet. But he apes, so far as he is able, the thing that I am; that I wish you to become. You are a country-bumpkin, my dear; he is a coddled doll. Strive to become something betwixt the two."

"Remain what you are, my son, but bethink you—which will Cleone prefer? Him who gives her graceful homage, and charms her ears with honeyed words, or him who is tongue-tied before her, who is careless of his appearance, and who treats her, not as a young and beautiful girl, but as his inevitable possession?"

"Cleone, sir, will—give herself where she pleases, but she is not one to over-rate the tricks of such as Bancroft."

"Or to under-rate the discomforts of tying herself to one who is tied to the soil and his own pleasure," said Sir Maurice softly.

"Thank you!" The young voice was exceedingly bitter. "I am to be a painted popinjay! I tell you, sir, Cleone must take me as I am."

"That's for you to judge, child. And now I'll to bed." He paused, looking at his son.

Followed a week of disturbing trivialities. Mr. Bancroft was more often in Little Fittledean than at home, and most often at Sharley House. He there met Philip, not once, but many times, hostile and possessive. He laughed softly, and sought to engage Philip in a war of wits, but Philip's tongue was stiff and reluctant. So Mr. Bancroft made covert sport of him and renewed his attentions to Cleone.

Cleone herself was living in a strange whirl. There was much in Mr. Bancroft that displeased her; I do not think she ever had it in her mind to wed him, which was perhaps fortunate, as Mr. Bancroft certainly had it not in his. But homage is grateful to women, and ardent yet dainty love-making fascinating to the young. She played with Mr. Bancroft, but thought no less of Philip. Yet Philip contrived to irritate her. His air of ownership, his angry, reproachful looks, fired the spirit of coquetry within her. Mastery thrilled her, but a mastery that offered to take all, giving nothing, annoyed her. That Philip loved her to distraction, she knew; also she knew that Philip would expect her to bend before his will. He would not change, it would be she who must conform to his pleasure. Philip was determined to remain as he was, faithful but dull. She wanted all that he despised: life, gaiety, society, and frivolity. She weighed the question carefully, a little too carefully for a maid in love. She wanted Philip and she did not want him. As he was, she would have none of him; as she wished him to be, he might have her. But for the present she was no man's, and no man had the right to chide her. Philip had made a mistake in his wooing in showing her how much his own he thought her. All unwitting, he was paving the way to his own downfall.

Despite the lisping conceit of Mr. Bancroft, his polished phrases and his elegancy when compared with Philip's brusqueness threw Philip in the shade. Mr. Bancroft could taunt and gibe at Philip, sure of triumph; Philip tied his tongue in knots and relapsed into silence, leaving Mr. Bancroft to shine in his victory. The man Cleone chose to wed must be a match for all, with words or swords. Cleone continued to smile upon Mr. Bancroft.

At the end of the week the trouble came to a head. In the garden of Sharley House, before Cleone, Mr. Bancroft threw veiled taunts at Philip, and very thinly veiled sneers. He continued to hold the younger man's lack of polish up to scorn, always smiling and urbane.

Cleone recognised the gleam in Philip's eye. She was a little frightened and sought to smooth over the breach. But when she presently retired to the house, Philip arrested Mr. Bancroft, who was following.

Bancroft raised his eyeglass. Through it he studied Philip from his toes to his head.

"It is necessary," bowed Philip, enjoying himself now for the first time in many days.

Philip patted his sword-hilt, and Bancroft observed for the first time that he was wearing a sword.

"I have noticed, Mr. Bancroft, that you habitually don your sword. So I took the precaution of wearing mine. 'When' is now, and 'where' is yonder!" He pointed above the hedge that encircled the garden to the copse beyond. It was a very fine theatrical effect, and he was pleased with it.

"A trifle countrified, Mr. Jettan. Do you propose to dispense with such needless formalities as seconds?"

What followed was not so fine. Bancroft was proficient in the art of the duello; Philip had never fought in his life. Fencing had never interested him, and Sir Maurice had long since despaired of teaching him anything more than the rudiments. However, he was very angry and very reckless, while Bancroft thought to play with him. He thrust so wildly and so insanely that Bancroft was taken unawares and received a fine slash across the arm. After that he fenced more carefully, and in a very short time pinked Philip neatly and artistically above the elbow of his sword arm. As Philip's blade wavered and fell, he wiped his own on his handkerchief, sheathed it, and bowed.

"Let this be a lesson to you, sir," he said, and walked away before Philip could pick up his sword.

Twenty minutes later Philip walked into the hall of Sharley House, a handkerchief tied tightly round his arm, and asked for Mistress Cleone. On being told that she was in the parlour, he stalked in upon her.

"It is less than nothing, I thank you," replied Philip. "I want you to answer me plainly, Cleone. What is that fellow to you?"

Cleone sat down again. Her eyes flashed; Philip was nearer than ever to his downfall.

"I consider such a question an—an impertinence!" cried Cleone. "What right have you to ask me such a thing?"

"No?" Philip spoke very evenly. "But if I became—your ideal—you could marry me?"

"As I am—you'll none of me. You do not want—an honest man's love. You want the pretty compliments of a doll. If I will learn to be—a doll—you'll wed me. Well, I will learn. You shall not be—annoyed—by an honest man's love—any longer. I will go to London—and one day I'll return. Farewell, Cleone."

He bowed, still holding her hand, and then, without a word, released it, and marched out, very dignified. It was another fine tragic effect, but Cleone, when the door closed behind him, broke into an hysterical laugh. She was rather amazed, and a little apprehensive.

Five
In Which Philip Finds That His Uncle Is More Sympathetic Than His Father

Home went Philip, a prey to conflicting emotions. He was angry with Cleone, and hurt at what he termed her fickleness, but she was very lovely, and still wholly desirable. Never until now had he realised how necessary she was to his happiness. She would not marry him unless he reformed, learned to behave like Bancroft—that was what she meant. She did not love him as he was; she wanted polish, and frills and furbelows. Philip's lips tightened. She should have them—but he was very, very angry. Then he thought of his father, and the anger grew. What right had these two to seek to change him into something that was utterly insincere, trifling, and unmanly? His father would be rejoiced to hear that he was going "to become a gentleman." Even he had no use for Philip as he was. Well, they should have what they wanted—and then perhaps they would be sorry. In a wave of self-pity he considered how dearly he loved these two people. He wanted neither to change, he loved them for what they were; but they.... He felt very sore and ill-used. Something else there was that troubled him. He had set about the task of punishing Mr. Bancroft, and Mr. Bancroft had ended by punishing him. No pleasant thought, that. Bancroft was master not only of words but of swords; he, Philip, was master of neither. He brooded over the question, chafed and irritable. And so came home to Sir Maurice.

He found him seated on the terrace, reading Juvenal. Sir Maurice, glancing up, observed Philip's sling. He said nothing, but his eyes gleamed an instant.

"Also"—Philip spoke with difficulty—"Cleone—will have none of me—as I am." He looked across at his father with some bitterness. "As you prophesied, sir, she prefers the attentions of such as Bancroft."

"Have I said so, sir?" Philip spoke sharply. "Cleone desires a beau—she shall have one! I have told her that I shall not come to her until I am what—she thinks—is her desire! I will show her and you that I am not the dull-witted bumpkin you think me, fit for nothing better than"—he mimicked his father's tone—"to till the earth! I'll learn to be the painted fop you'd like to see me! Neither you nor she shall be offended longer by the sight of me as I am!"

"Now, here's a heat!" remarked Sir Maurice. "So you'll to London, boy? To your uncle?"

"That's the wrong spirit for your emprise," said Sir Maurice, a laugh in his eyes. "You must enter into your venture heart and soul."

"It's also at Sharley House," said his father dryly, "or why do you go to London?"

"Ay, it's there! And I have the felicity of knowing that Cleone cares not one snap of her fingers for me! She trifles with me, and makes sport of me for her amusement!"

"To show her that I am not the brainless oaf she thinks me!" answered Philip, and marched off.

Not until his arm was healed did Philip set forth to London town. He parted amicably enough from his father, who gave him much advice, many introductions, and his blessing. Cleone he did not see at all, but when he had gone she went up to the Pride and held Sir Maurice's hand very tightly. She shed a few tears; also she laughed a little. As for Sir Maurice—well, he chided himself for a sentimental old fool, but with Philip's departure had come a void which could only be filled by Philip's return.

Tom was breakfasting when his nephew was announced. It was noon, but Tom had spent a strenuous night. Philip walked into the room, under the gloomy eye of Moggat, travel-stained and stiff from the saddle. He was quite unexpected, but his uncle showed no surprise at seeing him.

"Artistic be damned!" said Philip, attacking it. Then he frowned. "H'm! No, Tom, 'tis a displeasing blend—red and brown."

Tom thereupon buried himself in the mass of correspondence that lay by his plate. When he came to the end, Philip had finished his repast. Tom pushed back his chair.

"Is it perhaps—a thing I can best learn alone?" he asked, surprisingly diffident.

"Not at all," said Tom hastily. "So Maurice has been at you again, eh? Now, Philip, lad, come off your pinnacle and be sensible, for God's sake! What do ye want?"

"I want, or rather, they—he—wants me to learn how to dress, how to walk across a room, how to play with words, how to make love to women, how to bow, how to—"

"Oh, stop, stop!" cried Tom. "I have the whole picture! And it's no easy task, my boy. It will take you years to learn."

"Why, I trust you're pessimistic, sir," said Philip, "for I intend to acquire all these arts—within a year."

"Well, I like your spirit," acknowledged Tom. "Take some more ale, lad, and let me have the whole story."

This advice Philip saw fit to follow. In a very short time he found that he had unburdened his sore heart to an astonishingly sympathetic uncle. Tom forbore to laugh—although now and then he was seized by an inward paroxysm which he had much ado to choke down. When Philip came to the end of his recital and stared gloomily across at him, he tapped his teeth with one polished finger-nail and looked exceeding wise.

"My opinion is, Philip, that you are the best of all us Jettans, but that's neither here nor there. Now it seems to me that the folk at home don't appreciate your sterling qualities—"

"Don't interrupt my peroration, lad. They think you a noble—what was the word you used?—clodhopper. 'Tis marvellously apt. They doubt your ability to shine in society. 'Tis for us to prove them to be mistaken. You must surprise them."

"Um! a little attention, and I'd not wish to see better. Like all the Jettans, you are passable of countenance, not to say handsome."

"Then ye know it now. You're the spit of your father in his young days. Gad, what days they were! Before I grew fat," he added sadly. "But I wander, I wander. Maurice and the petticoat—what's the girl's name?"

"Don't be a fool, lad! It's that fair chit, eh? Charlotte—no, damn it, some heathenish name!"

"Ay, that's it—Cleone. Well, Maurice and Cleone think that ye'll gain a little polish and some style. What you must do is excel. Excel!"

"Then I've done with you." Tom leaned back in his chair with an air of finality.

The round, good-tempered face lost its unaccustomed severity. Tom was again wrapped in thought.

"Paris," he said at length, to the bewilderment of his nephew. "You must go there," he explained.

"Ay, and have all your friends nudging each other as you transform from what you are to what you are to become!"

"To Paris," resumed Tom, "within the week. Luckily, you've more money than is good for you. You've no need to pinch and scrape. I'll take you, clothe you, and introduce you."

"It is," agreed Tom. "But I dare swear I'll find entertainment there." He chuckled. "And not a word to your father or to anyone. You'll vanish, and when you reappear no one will know you."

"I suppose I must do it. But—" He rose and walked to the window. "It's all that I despise and that I detest. Mere love—does not suffice. Well, we shall see." He thrust his hands deep in his pockets. "The thing they want me to be is neither noble nor estimable. They—he—they—don't care what may be a man's reputation or his character! He must speak them softly, and charm their ears with silly compliments, and their eyes with pretty silks and satins. Naught else is of consequence. Faugh!"

"Ay, you're taking it hard," nodded his uncle. "But they're all the same, lad—bless 'em!"

Six
The Beginning of the Transformation

Philip stood in the middle of the floor, expostulating. A sleek valet was kneeling before him, coaxing his gold-clocked stockings over the knee of his small-clothes, and a middle-aged exquisite was arranging his Mechlin cravat for the seventh time, a frown crinkling his forehead, and French oaths proceeding from his tinted lips. Mr. Thomas Jettan was giving the nails of Philip's right hand a last, lingering polish. And Philip, supremely miserable, expostulated in vain.

"But of an excellence, m'sieur! So perfect a calf, m'sieur! So vairy fine a laig," he explained in English.

Philip tried to squint down at them, and was rewarded by an impatient exclamation from the gentleman who was wrestling with his cravat.

"Tais—toi, imbécile! 'Ow is it zat I shall arrange your cravat if you tweest and turn like zis? Lift your chin, Philippe!"

The Marquis disregarded him. Once more his nimble fingers busied themselves amongst the folds of soft lace. His eyes gleamed suddenly.

The valet held it out. He and Tom watched anxiously as the Marquis' hand hovered, uncertain. Philip felt that this was a supreme moment; he held his breath. Then the pin was fixed with one unerring movement, and the two onlookers drew deep breaths of relief.

"Philippe—if it were not for the love I bear your papa, I would leave you zis minute. You will do as I say, hein?"

Under his deft hands Philip squirmed and screwed up his face. He complained that the haresfoot tickled him, and he winced when the Marquis pressed two patches on his face. When François dusted his cheeks with powder he sneezed, and when a single sapphire ear-ring was placed in his left ear he scowled and muttered direfully.

But the supreme torture was to come. He discovered that it required the united energies of the three men to coax him into his coat. When at last it was on he assured them it would split across the shoulders if he so much as moved a finger.

"A pretty plaything," he said. "I have never spent so much money on fripperies before."

François arranged the full skirts of his coat about the sword, and Tom slipped rings on to Philip's fingers. A point-edged hat was put into his hand, an enamelled snuff-box, and a handkerchief.

Thomas looked at the Marquis, the Marquis nodded complacently. He led Philip to a long glass.

But Philip said never a word. He stared and stared again at his reflection. He could not believe that it was himself. He saw a tall, slight figure dressed in a pale blue satin coat, and white small-clothes, flowered waistcoat, and gold-clocked stockings. High red-heeled shoes, diamond-buckled, were on his feet, lace foamed over his hands and at his neck, while a white wig, marvellously curled and powdered, replaced his shorn locks. Unconsciously he drew himself up, tilting his chin a little, and shook out his handkerchief.

"In time, yes. At present, a thousand times no! C'est gauche, c'est impossible!"

"It is my intention," said the Marquis. "A month or so and I shall be proud of my pupil."

"Faith, I'm proud of ye now!" cried Tom. "Why, lad, you'll be more modish than ever Maurice was!"

Philip flushed beneath his powder. A ruby on his finger caught his eye. He regarded it for a moment, frowning, then he took it off.

"In a month—two months—I shall present you at Versailles," decided the Marquis. "François, remove that abominable ruby. And now—en avant!"

At the end of the month Tom went home to London, having set his nephew's feet on the path he was to tread. He left him in charge of M. de Château-Banvau, who had by now developed a lively interest in him.

After that first ball Philip threw off the last shreds of rebellion; he played his part well, and he became very busy. Every morning he fenced with an expert until he had acquired some skill with a small-sword; he spoke nothing but French from morn to night; he permitted the Marquis to introduce him into society; he strove to loosen his tongue, and he paid flippant court to several damsels who ogled him for his fine appearance, until his light conversation grew less forced and uncomfortable. For a while he took no interest in his tailoring, allowing Tom or François to garb him as they pleased. But one day, when François extended a pair of cream stockings to his gaze, he eyed them through his quizzing-glass for a long moment. Then he waved them aside.

François was hurt; he liked those stockings. Would not M'sieur consider them? M'sieur most emphatically would not. If François admired pink clocks on a cream ground, let him take the stockings. M'sieur would not wear them; they offended him.

Before very long "le jeune Anglais" was looked for and welcomed. Ladies liked him for his firm chin, and his palpable manliness; men liked him for his modesty and his money. He was invited to routs and bals masqués, and to card-parties and soirées. Philip began to enjoy himself; he was tasting the delights of popularity. Bit by bit he grew to expect invitations from these new acquaintances. But still M. le Marquis was dissatisfied. It was all very well, but not well enough for him.

However, it was quite well enough for Thomas, and he departed, chuckling and elated. He left Philip debating over two wigs and the arrangement of his jewels.

Hardly a fortnight later Philip made secure his position in Polite Society by fighting a duel with a jealous husband. Lest you should be shocked at this sudden depravity, I will tell you that there was little enough cause for fighting, as Philip considered the lady as he might consider an aunt. Happily she was unaware of this. Philip's friends did not hold back; he had no difficulty in finding seconds, and the affaire ended in a neat thrust which pinked the husband, and a fresh wave of popularity for Philip.

The Marquis told his pupil that he was a gay dog, and was met by a chilling stare.

"Is it conceivable that you think me attracted by the smiles of Madame de Foli-Martin?"

"Permit me to enlighten you," said Philip. "My affections are with a lady—at home."

"Oh, la, la!" deplored the Marquis. "A lady of the country? A simple country wench?"

"I thank God, yes," said Philip. He depressed his friend, who had hoped for better things of him. But he thought it wiser to change the subject.

Philip crossed one elegantly breeched leg over the other. He was, if anything, a little bored.

"The manner is excellent, my friend. You will like to make your bow to the King."

"Sans doute," bowed the Marquis. "But I counsel you, slayer of hearts, to cast your eyes away from la Pompadour."

"It is very fashionable," said the Marquis mischievously. "You become a figure."

"But I—" He checked himself, and relapsed into languor. "They fatigue me." And he yawned.

"The woman with the enormous wig—oh—ah! She is well enough, but passée, mon cher Marquis, passée!"

"Sangdieu, you are fastidious of a sudden! Is the little country chit so lovely?"

"Your pardon, Marquis, but I prefer to leave that lady's name out of this or any discussion."

That night he gave a card-party. The play was high and the bottles numerous. He lost some money, won a little, and was put to bed by his valet long after dawn. He awoke later with a splitting headache, but he considered himself a man. That was in September.

Seven
Mr. Bancroft Comes to Paris and Is Annoyed

In February came Mr. Bancroft to Paris. Philip's departure from Little Fittledean had been closely followed by his own, for he found that Cleone no longer smiled. Also, the spice of wooing her was gone when there was no jealous lover to flout. He waited until his affaire had blown over, and then he went back to London. Now, very blasé, he came to Paris in search of new pastimes.

It was not long before he met Philip. And the manner of the meeting was delightfully sensational. Under the auspices of his friend, M. de Chambert, he attended a rout at the hotel of the Duchesse de Maugry. He was presented to one Mademoiselle de Chaucheron, a sprightly little lady, with roguish black eyes. Mr. Bancroft was content to form one of the small court she held. Several old acquaintances he met, for he was not unknown in Paris.

Conversation flourished for some time. But suddenly Mademoiselle cried out, clapping her hands:

A slight gentleman in peach-coloured satin, powdered, painted, perfumed, came quickly through the group and went down on one knee before her.

"The darkness of the Court!" laughed the Comte de Saint-Dantin. "Philippe, I know you for a rogue and a trifler!"

"I have lost count! Now I must begin again. One moment, Comte, I am much occupied!" Gravely he kissed each rosy finger a second time. "And one for the lovely whole. Voilà!"

"You don't deceive me, le petit Philippe!... So sweet, so amiable, so great a flatterer—with no heart to lose!"

"Oh!" Mademoiselle started back in mock-anger. "Wretch that thou art, and so fickle! Rise! I'll no more of you!"

"Alack!" Philip came to his feet, and dusted his knee with his handkerchief. "I give you thanks, mignonne, 'twas very hard."

Mr. Bancroft was staring at Philip as one in a trance. At that moment Philip looked his way. The grey eyes held no recognition and passed on.

"Aha, that I understand!" said Mademoiselle relievedly. "It is one of your friends, Philippe?" She smiled upon Mr. Bancroft with more warmth, and extended her hand. "L'ami de Philippe—ah, but you should have said!"

Mr. Bancroft was not elated at being classed as Philip's friend, but he bowed over Mademoiselle's hand with a good grace.

"I had no notion of finding him here, mademoiselle. The last time we met was—in a wood."

"Mr. Bancroft and I had some slight difference in opinion which we settled in a wood. I was very easily worsted."

"On the contrary, bien aimée; I was, in those days, a very sorry spectacle, was I not, sir?"

"Come here! I want you to tell me what you mean by a sorry spectacle. If you refuse—bien! I shall ask Mr. Bancroft!"

Philip raised his eyeglass. He observed Mr. Bancroft dispassionately. Then he shrugged, and turned back to Clothilde.

"Petite ange, it's a sad tale. Six months ago I lived in the country, and I was a very churlish bumpkin. Then I was made to see the folly of my ways, and now—me voici!"

"On my honour, no, chérie! I came to Paris to learn the ways of Polite Society."

"Six months ago?" De Bergeret was astonished. "It is your first visit? You learned all this in so short a time?"

"Je n'en reviendrai jamais!" Mademoiselle spoke emphatically. "Jamais, jamais, jamais!"

All eyes turned his way. Philip seated himself beside Mademoiselle. He was smiling faintly.

Philip played with Clothilde's fan; he was still smiling, but the bright grey eyes that met Bancroft's held a challenge.

"If it transpired, m'sieur, that I had not forgotten it is possible that I might resent any liberties you or others thought to take with that lady's name," he said softly.

There was a sudden silence. No one could mistake the menacing note in Philip's smooth voice. Saint-Dantin made haste to fill the breach.

"The little Philippe is ready to fight us all, but it cannot be permitted. We'll not plague him, for he is very devilish when he is roused, I assure you!" He laughed easily and offered Bancroft snuff.

"I am promised to Jules!" She nodded, smiling, to De Bergeret. Together they walked away from the little group.

"Come with me to the card-room, Philippe. Unless you wish to lead out la Salévier?" He nodded to where an opulent beauty stood.

"Who is he, the ill-disposed gentleman in pink?" inquired the Comte, when they were out of earshot.

"You may call upon me," said Saint-Dantin at once. "I do not like anything about him. He was here before—last year. His conversation lacks finesse. He is tolerated in London, hein?"

"Oh, yes, yes, I know! We all know that in the background lurks—a lady! Else why your so chaste and cold demeanour?"

"So I have been told. Presumably because I am innocent of the slightest indiscretion. Curious. No one dubs you rogue who so fully merit the title. But I, whose reputation is spotless, am necessarily a wicked one and a deceiver. I shall write a sonnet on the subject."

"Ah, no!" begged Saint-Dantin in alarm. "Your sonnets are vile, Philippe! So let us have no more verse from you, I pray! All else you can do, but, sacré nom de Dieu, your verse—!"

"For the moment," answered Philip sweetly. "All things pall on one after a time."

"You are as inquisitive as a monkey," said Philip, and propelled him into the card-room.

"Con—ah, but no! You misunderstand him! He pretends, and it is very amusing, but he is not conceited; he is just a bébé."

"C'est le dernier cri de Paris. There are some who are jealous, naturally, but all who know him like him too much to be jealous."

"A word in your ear, m'sieu'! Do not speak your dislike too widely. Le petit Philippe has powerful friends. You will be frowned upon if you sneer at him."

"I'll—not conceal from you, De Chambert, that I've a grudge against your little Philippe. I punished him once before for impudence."

"Aha? I don't think you were well advised to do so again. He would have no lack of friends, and with a small-sword he is a veritable devil. It would not be wise to show your enmity, for you will meet him everywhere, and he is the ladies' darling. That says much, hein?"

"And when I saw him last," spluttered Bancroft, "he was clad in a coat I'd not give a lackey, and had as much conversation as a scarecrow!"

Eight
In Which Philip Delivers Himself of a Rondeau

M. Le Comte De Saint-Dantin gave a select dinner and card-party some few weeks after the coming of Mr. Bancroft. Only his chosen intimates were invited, and amongst them was Philip. At half-past five all the guests, save one, were assembled in the library, and Saint-Dantin was comparing his chronometer with the clock on the mantelpiece.

"Now what comes to Philippe?" he inquired of no one in particular. "Where is the child?"

"He was at the ball last night," said M. de Chatelin, smoothing his ruffles. "He left early and in great haste." He raised his eyes and they were twinkling. "The pearl that hung from Mademoiselle de Marcherand's right ear inspired him and he fled."

"May the devil fly away with Philippe and his verse! I dare swear it's that that keeps him now."

"But yes! Henri declares he is possessed of an inspiration for a ballade to Julie de Marcherand's pearl."

"Alas, it is too true. I visited him this morning and found him en déshabillé, clasping his brow. He seized on me and demanded a rhyme to some word which I have forgot. So I left him."

"Can no one convince Philippe that he is not a poet?" asked De Bergeret plaintively.

"One may tell him that he is no swordsman, and no true cavalier; one may decry all his graces and he will laugh with one; but one may not say that he will never be a poet. He will not believe it."

"Oh, he believes it, au fond," answered Saint-Dantin. "It amuses him to pretend. Ah, here he is!"

Into the room came Philip, a vision in shades of yellow. He carried a rolled sheet of parchment, tied with an amber ribbon. He walked with a spring, and his eyes sparkled with pure merriment. He waved the parchment roll triumphantly.

"Of course," agreed Philip. "The theme demanded a rondeau. At three this afternoon I discovered that it was so. Did you come to see me this morning, Paul?"

"I'll not listen to your verse on an empty stomach," declared the Vicomte. "Belike I shall appreciate it when in my cups."

"Parbleu, Philippe, it's what we wish to know. You shall expound to us at dinner."

Midway through the meal the Vicomte remembered something. He nodded across the table to Philip, who was engaged in a lively and witty argument with De Bergeret.

"Which so dear friend?" asked Philip. "Jules, if you maintain in the face of my exposition that Jeanne de Fontenay can rival la Salévier in the matter of—"

"But attend!" insisted the Vicomte. "The Englishman—the Bancroft—peste, what a name for my tongue!"

Philip broke off in the middle of his discourse. His eyes gleamed in the candlelight.

"It would appear that ce cher Bancroft feels no love for you, mon pauvre. If De Graune is to be believed, he resents your presence here. He says he has been deceived in you. It is all very sad."

"Oh!" Philip turned in his chair and leaned his elbows on the table. "It is possible that I shall have a word to say to M. Bancroft. Continue, Charles!"

"M. Bancroft, he told of your—ah—infatuation. He described the lady—oh, fully!"

The thin lips were growing into a straight, smiling line, tightly compressed. Philip nodded.

"Vicomte, does the gossip of the gaming-halls amuse you?" asked Saint-Dantin sharply.

"A pretty piece, he called her, but no more than a simple country wench. By name—"

"But no!" Philip waved him aside. "I am very interested in what M'sieur has to say."

"By name, Cleone. We have it from M. Bancroft that she falls in love with him for his beaux yeux and his so charming manner."

"It is further recorded that one M. Philippe Jettan importuned her with his clumsy attentions, so that M. Bancroft was compelled to teach this M. Philippe a sharp lesson. And when one asks, 'What of the pretty Cleone?' he shrugs his shoulders and replies, very superbly, that he wearied of her as of all others."

"Philippe, fill your glass. Paul here tells me of a pass he conceived in his duel with Mardry last month. A—"

"I will ask Paul to show me that pass," said Philip. He leaned back in his chair and laughed softly. A moment later he had resumed his interrupted discussion with De Bergeret.

"Philippe, I would not have had that happen at my table! Charles is incorrigible!"

"On the contrary, I am grateful to him," replied Philip. "I might not have heard else. Now I will shut that fellow's mouth."

"First I will reverse the tables. I will punish him. Then I will assure him that my friends will espouse my cause if he again mentions my lady's name in public."

"Wait! Any mention of her name will be reported to me, and I shall send François to administer a little beating. It is well."

"Comment? Your wife? Ah, voyons! Cela change l'affaire! I did not know that. Stop his talk, by all means."

"Saint-Dantin, a wager!" called De Vangrisse. "What are you talking of so earnestly?"

"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.

Philip paused for his final effect. Arose Saint-Dantin, and like a flash interjected:

Nine
Mr. Bancroft Is Enraged

"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.

"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.

"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."

"Does he? Mordieu, I'd like to see that! Puce small-clothes, forsooth! And what does our Philippe wear?"

"Grey, and palest pink, with lacings of silver." He slipped out of his gaily-hued robe, and stood up.

His valet brought it, and helped Philip to put it on. It was a very exquisite confection of pink and silver brocade.

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.

"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!"

"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.

"Why, you leap to my bait!" said De Bergeret, amused. "I thought you could not resist so great an attraction!"

"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?"

"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!"

"Philippe, it is not convenable to 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!"

"A brawl? Is it possible? I shall conduct the affair with great douceur, 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?"

"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.

"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?"

"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 you en désespéré. Eh bien, I say that you lie in your throat!"

"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?"

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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.

"Not I! Jules has the devil's own luck to-night. If it is not an impertinence, are you to meet M. Bancroft?"

"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.

"Come apart a moment," he said. His voice was still trembling with passion. He and Le Vallon drew near to the window.

"I want you to act for me," he said abruptly. "He—insulted me, and I've sworn to teach him a lesson."

"No, not quite that. I've no wish for trouble. He has too many friends. I'll teach him to leave me alone!"

"It is said that he is a not-to-be-despised swordsman. He pinked Armand de Sedlamont with great ease."

"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."

"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.

"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 so entreprenant. An' I mistake not, you will have an audience," he chuckled.

"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."

"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!"

"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?"

"It is a heavy price to pay," answered Paul, "but not too heavy for the entertainment."

Ten
In Which a Letter Is Read

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.

"Oh, sir, can you ask? I am very well," she said, with great sprightliness. "And you?"

"Do you, sir? He should be home again ere long. Do you—do you yet know where he is?"

"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!"

"No. Else had I heard. Faith, it's our own fault, Cleone, and we are grumbling!"

"We sent Philip to acquire polish. Heaven knows what has happened to him! Would you care greatly if he returned—without the polish, child?"

"I fear not, Cleone. Can you see our Philip tricked up in town clothes, apeing town ways?"

"I don't—care about it." It was a forlorn little voice, and Sir Maurice patted her hand again.

"I do not think it is very kind in Philip to stay away from you for so long a time," said Cleone wistfully.

"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."

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.

"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.

"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?"

"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.

"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.

"Well, it's more than I do! However: 'I came upon Moosoo de Château-Banvau the other day....'"

"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 his protégé, 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.'"

"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.'"

"'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.'"

"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 to se taire, as they call it, calling him petit Philippe and 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?"

"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.

"Of course I do! The boy is but doing what I told him to do—acquiring polish and savoir faire with your sex, my dear."

"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, how dare he?"

"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?"

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."

Eleven
Philip Astonishes His Uncle

Thomas, deep in the latest copy of the Rambler, 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.

"God ha' mercy, it's Philip!" gasped Tom. "I never expected you for another week, lad!"

"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——!"

"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.

"Merci du compliment!" smiled Philip. "You perhaps admire the mixture of claret and biscuit as I wear it?"

"Ay. I admire everything. The boots most of all. The boots—Philip, where did you obtain them?"

"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 with ce bon Moggat, and all is well. He will arrange everything."

"All—that baggage?" Philip spoke with uplifted brows. "It has arrived?" He went to the window and looked out. "But no, not yet."

"And you who six months ago thought yourself rich in the possession of three coats."

"Ah!" Philip smiled. "That is—another—matter. I have to thank you for your letter, Tom."

"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?"

"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?"

"I want to have her love me for—myself, and not for my clothes, or my airs and graces. It's incomprehensible?"

"Merely my baggage," said Philip, with another glance towards the window. "It is the coach that you hear."

"That is the inimitable François. I do not think that Moggat finds favour in his eyes."

"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."

"Who knows? I make my bow to London Society, I amuse myself a little—ah yes! and I procure a house."

"I present myself to Cleone—as she would have had me. A drawling, conceited, and mincing fop. Which I am not, believe me!"

"It did not entice me. I am le petit sans repos, and le petit Philippe au Cœur Perdu, and petit 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?"

"Ay. Paul de Vangrisse, Jules de Bergeret, Henri de Chatelin—oh, I can't tell you! They are all charming!"

"Also charming. Did you ever meet Clothilde de Chaucheron, or Julie de Marcherand? Ah, voilà ce qui fait ressouvenir! I count that rondeau one of my most successful efforts. You shall hear it some time or other."

"A rondeau: 'To the Pearl that Trembles in her Ear.' I would you could have seen it."

"Merciful heaven!" gasped Tom. "A rondeau! Philip—poet! Sacr-ré mille petits cochons!"

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 purple essayons!"

"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.

"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 stockings aux 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."

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 did I say? 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."

"I do not want your oaths," said Philip cruelly. "Am I to wait all night for my cravat, while you revile the good Jacques?"

"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 is sot, you understand, très sot!" He pushed Philip's chin up with a gentle hand. "He annoys m'sieur, ah oui! But he is a good garçon, 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 English aussi bien que le Français! Deign to enter into these shoes, m'sieur! I tell him I hold him in contempt! He makes a reniflement in his nose, and he mutters 'damned leetle frog-eater!' Grand Dieu, I could have boxed his ears, the impudent!"

"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 pauvre Jacques. 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 always doux comme un enfant. I think, perhaps, he will refuse to remain in the house with this pig of a Moggat."

"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."

"M'sieur is kind! A house of his own. Je me rangerai bien! M'sieur contemplates a mariage, perhaps?"

"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 meddling bavardage about 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."

"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.

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.

Twelve
Philip Plays a Dangerous Game

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 a chef. 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 fair chef and a good garçon. 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 a chef is 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 French chef, bien sûr. What does an Englishman know of the cuisine? 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!"

"And then we have a household bien tenu. It is our poor Jacques who could not support an Englishman in the house."

"M'sieur se moque de moi! Is it that m'sieur is English? M'sieur is tout 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 a persona grata in 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.

"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.

"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."

"I am sure 'tis untrue, sir! You delight in teasing me!" Her eyes wandered past him to Philip.

"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! It was Philip! 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?"

"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.

"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."

"But how refreshing!" said Philip. "When everyone is ennuyé à l'agonie, how delightful to meet one who frankly enjoys." He looked at her admiringly. "And enjoyment becomes you better than boredom becomes other women."

"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."

"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."

"Mademoiselle speaks en 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!"

"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."

"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."

"But no! Flattery shall never be among my accomplishments, even were it necessary, which here"—he smiled ardently—"it most assuredly is not."

"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 of pique, 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."

"It is possible," he bowed. "Yet I seem to recollect that 'twas you who bade me go—to learn to be a gentleman."

"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."

"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.

"I shall write a sonnet in melancholy vein," he promised. "A sonnet to "Friends Who Knew Me Not." It will be a chef-d'œuvre, and I shall send it you tied with a sprig of myrtle."

"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.

"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. My ménage will amuse you. I am ruled by my valet, the redoubtable François."

"But yes! He would allow no English servant to insult me with his boorishness, so I have his cousin for chef." He threw a laughing glance at Cleone. "You would smile, Mademoiselle, could you but hear his so fierce denunciation of the English race."

"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.

Philip was smiling when François disrobed him, a smile that held much of tenderness.

Thirteen
Sir Maurice Comes to Town

A tall gentleman rang the bell of Mr. Thomas Jettan's house with some vigour. The door was presently opened by the depressed Moggat.

Sir Maurice swept in. He gave his cloak and hat to Moggat and walked to the library door. Moggat watched him somewhat fearfully. It was not often that Sir Maurice showed signs of perturbation.

"Why, Maurry!" He sprang up. "Gad, this is a surprise! How are ye, lad?" He wrung his brother's hand.

"Philip? Philip write me that letter? It's no more Philip than—than a cock-robin!"

"Oh, yes it is!" he said. "I recognise his hand. Now don't tramp up and down like that, Maurry! Sit down!" He glanced down the sheet and smothered a laugh.

"'My very dear Papa,'" he read aloud. "'I do trust that you are enjoying your Customary Good Health and that these fogs and bitter winds have not permeated so far as to Little Fittledean. As you will observe by the above written address, I have returned to this most barbarous land. For how long I shall allow myself to be persuaded to remain I cannot tell you, but after the affinity of Paris and the charm of the Parisians, London is quite insupportable. But for the present I remain, malgré tout. You will forgive me, I know, that I do not come to visit you at the Pride. The mere thought of the country at this season fills me with incalculable dismay. So I suggest, dear Father, that you honour me by enlivening with your presence this house that I have acquired from Sir Humphrey Grandcourt. Some small entertainment I can promise you, and my friends assure me that the culinary efforts of my chef are beyond compare. An exaggeration, believe me, which one who has tasted the wonders of a Paris cuisine will easily descry. I have to convey to you the compliments of M. de Château-Banvau and others. I would write more but that I am in labour with an ode. Believe me, Dear Father, thy most devoted, humble, and obedient son,—PHILIPPE.'" Tom folded the paper. "Very proper," he remarked. "What's amiss?"

"What's amiss? Everything's amiss! That Philip—my son Philip!—should write me a—an impertinent letter like that! It's—it's monstrous!"

"For God's sake, sit down, Maurry! You're as bad as Philip himself for restlessness! Now I take this as a very dutiful, filial letter."

"Dutiful be damned!" snorted Sir Maurice. "Has the boy no other feelings than he shows in that letter? Why did he not come down to see me?"

"The mere thought of the country at this season appalled him. What's wrong with that? You have said the same."

"I? I? What matters it what I should have said? I thought Philip cared for me! He trusts I will enliven his house with my presence! I'm more like to break my stick across his back!"

"Not a whit," said Tom, cheerfully. "You sent Philip away to acquire polish, and I don't know what besides. He has obeyed you. Is it likely that, being what he now is, he'll fly back to the country? What's the matter with you, Maurice? Are you grumbling because he has obeyed your behests?"

"If you but knew how I have missed him and longed for him," he began, and checked himself. "I am well served," he said bitterly. "I should have been content to have him as he was."

"I cannot bear to think of Philip as being callous, flippant, and—a mere fop!"

"'Twould be your own fault if he were," said Tom severely. "But he's not. Something inside him has blossomed forth. Philip is now pure joy."

"It's true, lad. That letter—oh, ay! He's a young rascal, but 'twas to avenge his injured feelings, I take it. He was devilish hurt when you and Cleone sent him away betwixt you. He's still hurt that you should have done it. I can't fathom the workings of his mind, but he assures me they are very complex. He is glad that you sent him, but he wants you to be sorry. Or rather, Cleone. The lad is very forgiving to you"—Tom laughed—"but that letter is a piece of devilry—he has plenty of it, I warn you! He hoped you'd be as angry as you are and wish your work undone. There's no lack of affection."

"Never think it! In a way he's the same, but there's more of him—ay, and a score of affectations. In about ten minutes"—he glanced at the clock—"he'll be here. So you'll see for yourself."

"Of course it did, the young devil! Oh, Maurry, Maurry, ye never saw the like of our Philip!"

"Is he so remarkable? I heard about that absurd duel, as I told you. There'll be a reckoning between him and Cleone."

"Ay. That's what I don't understand. The pair of them are playing a queer game. Old Sally Malmerstoke told me that Cleone vows she hates Philip. The chit is flirting outrageously with every man who comes—always under Philip's nose. And Philip laughs. Yet I'll swear he means to have her. I don't interfere. They must work out their own quarrel."

"Clo doesn't hate Philip," said Sir Maurice. "She was pining for him until that fool Bancroft read us Satterthwaite's letter. Was it true that Philip fought over some French hussy?"

"No, over Clo herself. But he says naught, and if the truth were told, I believe it's because he has had affaires in Paris, even if that was not one. He's too dangerously popular."

"So it seemed from Satterthwaite's account. Is he so popular? I cannot understand it."

"He's novel, y'see. I'd a letter from Château-Banvau the other day, mourning the loss of ce cher petit Philippe, and demanding whether he had found his heart or no!"

"By Gad, if Philip's so great a success, it's—it's more than ever I expected," he ended lamely.

"Wait till you see him!" smiled Thomas. "The boy's for all the world like a bit o' quicksilver. He splutters out French almost every time he opens his mouth, and—here he is!"

A door banged loudly outside, and a clear, crisp voice floated into the library from the hall.

"Mordieu, what a climate! Moggat, you rogue, am I not depressed enough without your glum face to make me more so? Smile, vieux crétin, for the love of God!"

"Were I to call Moggat one-half of the names Philip bestows on him, he'd leave me," remarked Tom. "With him, Philip can do no wrong. Now what's to do?"

"Doucement, malheureux! Gently, I say! Do you wish to pull my arms off with the coat? Ah, voilà! Spread it to dry, Moggat, and take care not to crease it. Yes, that is well!"

"Voyons, c'est fameux! Quite the French scholar, eh, Moggat? Where's my uncle? In the library?"

"Much have I borne in silence, Tom, but this rain—" He broke off. The next moment he was on one knee before his father, Sir Maurice's thin hands pressed to his lips. "Father!"

Sir Maurice drew his hands away. He took Philip's chin in his long fingers and forced his head up. Silently he scrutinised his son's face. Then he smiled.

"Not now. But when I received this—very." Sir Maurice held out the sheet of paper.

"That! Bah!" Philip sent it whirling into the fire. "For that I apologise. If you had not been hurt—oh, heaven knows what I should have done! Where is your baggage, Father?"

"What's that? Who are you calling an old man, Maurry? I'm as young as ever I was!"

"As often as you wish, dear boy, but I'll stay with Tom." Then, as Philip prepared to argue the point, "No, Philip, my mind is made up. Sit down and tell me the tale of your ridiculous duel with Bancroft."

"Oh, that!" Philip laughed. "It was amusing, but scandalous. My sympathies were with my adversary."

"An ode to importunate friends, especially composed for the occasion. They took it from me—Paul and Louis—oh, and Henri de Chatelin! They do not like my verse."

Sir Maurice lay back in his seat and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.

"Gad, Philip, but I wish I'd been there! To hear you declaim an ode of your own making! Faith, is it really my blunt, brusque, impossible Philip?"

"Cleone ... I don't know. It is what I wish to find out. Lady Malmerstoke stands my friend."

"She would not. Now she says—perhaps. We are very good friends," he added contentedly. "I doubt neither of us is at the age when one loves with heat."

"I cannot tell you, sir! My feeling for Paris and my Paris friends is beyond all words."

"May it please heaven, then, to make the end far, far away," said Philip. "When I go back, you will go with me, Father."

"Too old? Quelle absurdité! M. de Château-Banvau has made me swear to bring you. M. de Richelieu asked when he was to see your face again. A score—"

"Philip, I begin to think you are somewhat of a rake. What attracted you to Versailles?"

"Le petit Philippe au Cœur Perdu. Most of them would give their eyes to know who the fair unknown may be!"

Fourteen
The Strange Behaviour of Mistress Cleone

"Le père de M'sieur! I go at once." He vanished out of the door and scuttled downstairs to the library. Sir Maurice was startled by his sudden entrance, and raised his eyeglass the better to observe this very abrupt, diminutive creature.

"M'sieu, eet ees zat my mastaire 'e ees wiz hees barbier. Eef m'sieu would come up to ze chamber of my mastaire?"

"M'sieur veut bien," nodded Sir Maurice. He followed François upstairs to Philip's luxurious bedroom. François put forward a chair.

"M'sieur will be graciously pleased to seat himself? M'sieur Philippe will come very soon. It is the visit of the barber, you understand."

"Yes, m'sieur. It is perhaps that M'sieur Philippe has spoken of me?" He looked anxiously at Sir Maurice.

"No, he said no such thing," answered Sir Maurice gravely. "He told me he possessed a veritable treasure for a valet."

"Ah!" François clapped his hands. "It is true, m'sieur. I am a very good valet—oh, but very good!" He skipped to the bed and picked up an embroidered satin vest. This he laid over a chair-back.

"Ah, non, m'sieur! He does not lie abed late! Oh, but never, never. It is that the barber is here, and the tailor—imbeciles, both! They put M'sieur Philippe in a bad humour with their so terrible stupidity. He spends an hour explaining what it is that he wishes." François cast up his eyes. "And they do not understand, no! They are of so great a density! M'sieur Philippe he become much enraged, naturally."

At that moment Philip walked in, wrapped in a gorgeous silk robe, and looking thunderous. When he saw his father his brow cleared.

"I don't understand the child! I could have sworn she was dying for you to return!"

"I thought so. At home—yes, I am certain of it! But now she seems a changed being." He frowned, looking at his son. Philip was again occupied with his hands. "She is in excellent spirits; she tells me that she enjoys every moment of every day. She was in ecstasies! I spoke of you and she was quite indifferent. What have you done to make her so, Philip?"

"I do not quite know. I have become what she would have had me. To test her, I aped the mincing extravagance of the typical town-gallant. She was surprised at first, and then angry. That pleased me. I thought: Cleone does not like the thing I am; she would prefer the real me. Then I waited on Lady Malmerstoke. Cleone was there. She was, as you say, quite changed. I suppose she was charming; it did not seem so to me. She laughed and flirted with her fan; she encouraged me to praise her beauty; she demanded the madrigal I had promised her. When I read it she was delighted. She asked her aunt if I were not a dreadful, flattering creature. Then came young Winton, who is, I take it, amoureux à en perdre la tête. To him she was all smiles, behaving like some Court miss. Since then she has always been the same. She is kind to every man who comes her way, and to me. You say you do not understand? Nor do I. She is not the Cleone I knew, and not the Cleone I love. She makes herself as—Clothilde de Chaucheron. Charmante, spirituelle, one to whom a man makes trifling love, but not the one a man will wed." He spoke quietly, and with none of his usual sparkle.

"She is not, you say? I wonder now whether that is so. She flirted before, you remember, with Bancroft."

"Presumably because she so wishes. It is possible that the adulation she receives has flown to her head. It is almost as though she sought to captivate me."

"Well, sir, you will see. Come with us this afternoon. Tom and I are bidden to take a dish of Bohea with her ladyship."

"Sally has already asked me. I shall certainly come. Mordieu, what ails the child?"

"You do care, Philip? Still?" He watched Philip pick up the haresfoot with fingers that trembled a little.

"Gay?" cried Cleone. "How could I be sober, Aunt Sally? I am enjoying myself so much!"

"I really don't know. It is what one says. To be in the mode you must be fatigued to death."

"Then I am not in the mode," laughed Cleone. "Don't forget, Aunt, that I am but a simple country-maid!" She swept a mock curtsey.

"Well, my dear, if you must have it, 'tis this—you make yourself cheap by your flirtatious ways."

"Quite easily," said her ladyship. "Else had I left it unsaid. Since this Mr. Philip Jettan has returned you have acquired all the tricks of the sex. I do not find it becoming in you, but mayhap I am wrong."

"I beg your pardon, my dear, I thought it had. But if you wish to attract him—"

"I wish you would not interrupt," complained Lady Malmerstoke wearily. "I said if you wish to attract him you should employ less obvious methods."

"H—how dare you, Aunt Sally! I wish to attract him? I hate him! I hate the very sight of him!"

"Is that the way the wind lies?" murmured Lady Malmerstoke. "What's he done?" she added, ever practical.

"Aunt Sally—Aunt Sally—you—I won't answer! He—nothing at all! 'Tis merely that I do not like him."

"It's not apparent in your manner," remarked her ladyship. "Are you determined that he shall fall in love with you?"

"For the pleasure of seeing him at your feet, and then kicking him away. Revenge, my love, revenge."

"From all I can see of this Philip, he's not the man to be beaten by a chit of a girl. I think he is in love with you. Have a care, my dear. Men with chins like his are not safe. I've had experience, and I know. He'll win in the end, if he has a mind to do so."

"There is nothing blinder than a very young woman," philosophised her ladyship. "One lives and one learns. Your Philip—"

"You put me out," complained her aunt. "Your Philip is no fool. He's dangerous. On account of that chin, you understand. Don't have him, my dear; he's one of your masterful men. They are the worst; old Jeremy Fletcher was like that. Dear me, what years ago that was!"

"No, thank heaven, Tom's an easy-going creature," agreed her aunt. "A pity Philip is not the same."

"But I tell you he is! If—if he were more masterful I should like him better! I like a man to be a man and not—a—a pranked-out doll!"

"How you have changed!" sighed her aunt. "I thought that was just what you did not want. Didn't you send your Philip away to become a beau?"

"He is not my Philip—Aunt! I—no, of course I did—didn't. And if I d-did, it was very st-stupid of me, and now I'd rather have a—a masterful man."

"Ay, we're all like that in our youth," nodded her aunt. "When you grow older you'll appreciate the milder sort. I nearly married Jerry Fletcher. Luckily I changed my mind and had Malmerstoke. God rest his soul, poor fellow! Now I shall have Tom, I suppose."

"Dreadful, isn't it? But I was always like that. Very attractive, you know. I never was beautiful, but I made a great success. I quite shocked my poor mother. But it was all a pose, of course. It made me noticed. I was so amusing and novel—like you, my love, but in a different way. All a pose."

"Oh, now it's a habit. So much less fatiguing, my dear. But to return to what I was saying, you—"

"Don't—don't let's talk—about me," begged Cleone unsteadily. "I—hardly know what possesses me, but—Oh, there's the bell!"

"Already? Clo, is my wig on straight? Drat the men, I've not had a wink of sleep the whole afternoon. A nice hag I shall look to-night. Which of them is it, my dear?"

"'Tis James and Jennifer, Aunt." She came back into the room. "It seems an age since I saw Jenny."

"Yes—Jenny Winton, such a sweet little thing. She has come up with Mr. Winton for a few weeks. I am so glad she managed to induce him to bring her!" Cleone ran forward as the two Wintons were ushered in. "Jenny, dear!"

Jennifer was half a head shorter than Cleone, a shy child with soft grey eyes and mouse-coloured hair. She flung her arms round Cleone's neck.

"And oh, Jenny, how pretty you look!" retorted Cleone. "Aunt Sally, this is my dear Jennifer!"

"I am very well, child. Come and sit down beside me." She patted the couch invitingly. "Is this your first visit to town, my dear?"

Jennifer sat down on the edge of the couch. She stole an awed glance at Lady Malmerstoke's powdered wig.

"N-no." The little face clouded over. "Papa does not go out very much," she explained.

"Oh, Auntie, please take Jenny to the Dering ball next week!" she said impulsively. "You will come, won't you, sweet?"

"To be sure," nodded her ladyship. "Of course she will come! James, sit down! You should know by now how the sight of anyone on their feet fatigues me, silly boy! Dear me, child, how like you are to your brother! Are you looking at my wig? Monstrous, isn't it?"

"Of course you were. How could you help it? Cleone tells me it is a ridiculous creation, don't you, my love?"

"I do, and I truly think it!" answered Cleone, her eyes dancing. "'Tis just a little more impossible than the last."

"There!" Lady Malmerstoke turned back to Jennifer. "She is an impertinent hussy, is she not?"

"Don't attend to her!" besought Cleone. "Sometimes she is very ill-natured, as you see."

Jennifer ventured a very small laugh. She had resolutely dragged her eyes from the prodigious wig, and was now gazing at Cleone.

"'Tis only that Aunt Sally has tricked me out in fine clothes," she replied. "I'm—oh, I am the same!" she laughed, but not very steadily. "Am I not, James?"

"I will not have it," said Lady Malmerstoke severely. "You'll turn the child's head, if 'tis not turned already."

"Oh, it is, it is!" cried Cleone. "I am quite too dreadfully vain! And there is the bell again! James, who is it? It's vastly bad-mannered to peep, but you may do it. Quick!"

Jennifer giggled. She had never met anything quite like this queer, voluminous old lady before.

"I told him to be sure to come," answered her ladyship. "You know him, don't you?"

"Drat!" said her ladyship. She rose. "Where's your son?" she demanded, shaking her finger at Sir Maurice.

"Maurice," she retorted, "you were ever a punctilious ramrod. Philip's the only one of you I want to see. He says such audacious things," she explained. "So gratifying to an old woman. Well, Tom?"

"That's not polite," she said. "You can see I am very well. I declare you are growing thinner!"

"You've been taking exercise!" she exclaimed. "If you continue at this rate—I vow I'll marry you in a month!"

"Oh, I shall one day, never fear!" She caught sight of Jennifer's astonished expression and chuckled. "Now, Tom, behave yourself! You are shocking the child!" she whispered.

Sir Maurice had walked over to Cleone. She held out her hands, and he made as if to kiss them. She snatched them back.

"In truth, my dear, you've so changed from the little Cleone I know that I dare take no liberties."

"What's Cleone doing?" inquired Lady Malmerstoke. "Kissing Maurice? Now who's forward?"

"Kensington, poor child!" she murmured. "For heaven's sake everyone sit down! No, Maurice, that chair is too low for me. I'll take the couch." She proceeded to do so. As a matter of course, Tom sat down beside her. The others arranged themselves in two pairs, Sir Maurice leading Jennifer to a chair near the fire, and Cleone going to the window-seat with the admiring James.

Five minutes later the bell rang for the third time, and Jennifer received the worst shock of the afternoon. The page announced Mr. Philip Jettan, and Philip came into the room.

Sir Maurice felt Jennifer's start of surprise, and saw her stare past him as though she saw at least three ghosts.

Philip went to his hostess and dropped on one knee to kiss her hand. He was dressed in puce and old gold. Jennifer thought she had never seen anything so gorgeous, or so astonishing. She did not believe for a moment that it was her old playfellow, Philip.

"And you are sure you'll receive them!" chuckled her ladyship. "I'd give them, but that it would fatigue me so. Where's that ode? Don't tell me you've forgotten it!"

"Forgotten it! Never! It is a very beautiful ode, too, in my best style. Le voici!" He handed her a rolled parchment sheet, tied with mauve ribbons, and with violets cunningly inserted.

"You delightful boy!" cried her ladyship, inspecting it. "Violets! How did you know they were my favourite flowers?"

"Of course you did! But how charming of you! I declare I daren't untie it till the violets are dead. Look, Tom, is it not pretty? And isn't Philip sweet to write me an ode?"

"I am looking," said Tom gloomily. "Ye rascal, how dare you try to steal my lady's heart away from me?"

"My wig, Tom, my wig! You were not here when we discussed it. Cleone thought it a prodigious ugly wig, but Philip would have none of it. He said such pretty things about it, and promised me an ode for it! Philip, did I thank you?"

"With your eyes, madame, eloquently! But I need no thanks; it was an honour and a joy."

"Think of that!" nodded my lady, looking from Tom to Sir Maurice. "Philip, come and be presented to Mistress Jennifer. Or do you know her?"

"Jennifer! Of course I know her!" He went across the room. "Why, Jenny, where do you spring from? How are you?"

"You didn't know me? Jenny, how unkind! Surely I haven't changed as much as that?"

"I have not, I swear I have not! Father, go away! Let me sit here and talk to Jennifer!"

"It shall be ready by noon to-morrow," said Philip at once, "if you will promise not to misname me!"

"That is a foolish habit, Jenny. They say I chatter French all day. Which is very affected."

"French? Do you talk French now? How wonderful!" breathed Jennifer. "Say something else! Please!"

"La lumière de tes beaux yeux me pénètre jusqu'au cœur." He bowed, smiling.

"Did you? How—how dreadful of you! And you won't forget the—the can—can—what you were going to write for me, will you?"

"The canzonet. No, I think it must be a sonnet. And the flower—alas, your flower is out of season!"

"I defy it to be too late!" said Philip. "You shall have them if I have to fly to the ends of the earth for them!"

"N—yes, I think he has! And he says I must still call him Philip. And oh! he is going to write a—a sonnet to my eyes, tied with snowdrops! Mr. J—Philip, what is Cleone's flower?"

"Ah, mademoiselle, it must be that you have never seen a rose just bursting from the bud!"

"Oh, la! I am overcome, sir! And I have not yet thanked you for the bouquet you sent me this morning!"

"No. These"—she touched the flowers caressingly—"I have from Sir Deryk Brenderby."

"I think you are, sir. Mistress Ann Nutley wore your carnations yesterday the whole evening." Cleone found that she was looking straight into his eyes. Hurriedly she looked away, but a pulse was beating in her throat. For one fleeting instant she had seen the old Philip, grave, honest, a little appealing. If only—if only—

The pulse stopped its excited beating; the blue eyes lost their wistful softness. Cleone turned to James, who stood at her elbow.

Fifteen
Lady Malmerstoke on Husbands

"And he brought it himself, yesterday morning, tied with snowdrops. I don't know how he got them, for they are over, are they not, Clo? But there they were, with the prettiest verse you can imagine. It said my eyes were twin pools of grey! Isn't that beautiful?"

"Indeed, yes! And stayed a full hour, talking to Papa and to me. What do you think? He has begged me to be sure and dance with him on Wednesday! Is it not kind of him?"

"I cannot imagine why he should want them," Jennifer prattled on. "Jamie says he is at Mistress Nutley's feet. Is she very lovely, Clo?"

"Philip is teaching me to speak French. It is so droll, and he laughs at my accent. Can you speak French, Clo?"

"Oh, I do not think so! He could not, could he? Clo, I asked if he did not think you were very beautiful, and he said—"

"He did not mind! Truly, he did not! He just laughed—he is always laughing, Clo!—and said that there was no one who did not think so. Was not that neat?"

"Why, Clo, how strange you look! 'Tis only that I know James to be in love with—you!"

"No, no, dear! It—it is not that—I mean, of course, of course, I knew that James was—was—fond of me."

"Did you? Oh—oh, are you going to marry him?" Jennifer's voice squeaked with excitement.

"Not like that. James only thinks he loves me. He's too young. I—Tell me about your dress, dear!"

"Fair Mistress Cleone! I am happy, indeed, to have found you in! I kiss your hands, dear lady!"

Brenderby seemed to become suddenly aware of Jenny's presence. He bowed. Jennifer curtseyed demurely, and took refuge behind her friend.

"I will not take it from you," said Cleone. "Perhaps Jennifer will give you a dance."

"You wear my primroses, fairest!" he said to Cleone. "I scarce dared to hope so modest a posy would be so honoured."

Lady Malmerstoke chose that moment at which to billow into the room. She leaned on the arm of one Mr. Jettan.

"Philip, you are a sad fellow! You do not mean one word of what you say! Oh, lud! I have chanced on a reception. Give ye good den, Jenny, my dear. Sir Deryk? Thus early in the morning? I think you know Mr. Jettan?"

"I have the pleasure, Lady Malmerstoke," said Brenderby. "I did not see you last night, Jettan? You were not at Gregory's card-party?"

"Last night?—last night? No, I was at White's with my father. Mademoiselle, your very obedient! Et la petite!"

"Well, I trust I don't intrude?" she remarked. "Clo, where is my embroidery?" She turned to her guests. "I never set a stitch, of course. It would fatigue me too much. But it looks industrious to have it by me, doesn't it?"

Cleone and Brenderby had walked to the table in search of the missing embroidery. Cleone looked over her shoulder.

"You must not believe what she says," she told them. "Aunt Sarah embroiders beautifully. She is not nearly as lazy as she would have you think."

"Not lazy, my love—indolent. A much nicer word. Thank you, my dear." She received her stitchery and laid it down. "I will tell you all a secret. Oh, Philip knows! Philip, you need not listen."

"That is very unkind of you!" she reproached him. "You tell my secret before ever I have time to say a word!"

"Eh bien! You should not have suggested that I did not want to listen to your voice."

"When I am, indeed, your aunt, I shall talk to you very seriously about flattering old women," she said severely.

"One of them," nodded her aunt. "I gather that this one"—she smiled up at Philip—"is going to wed Someone Else. And I do not think I would have him in any case."

"And now who is unkind?" cried Philip. "I've a mind to run away with you as you enter the church!"

Cold fear was stealing through Cleone. Mechanically she congratulated her aunt. Through a haze she heard Brenderby's voice and Jennifer's. So Philip was going to marry Someone Else? No doubt it was Ann Nutley, the designing minx!

When Philip came presently to her side she was gayer than ever, sparkling with merriment, and seemingly without a care in the world. She drew Sir Deryk into the conversation, flirting outrageously. She parried all Philip's sallies and laughed at Sir Deryk's witticisms. Then Philip went to talk to Jennifer. A pair of hungry, angry, jealous, and would-be careless blue eyes followed him and grew almost hard.

When the guests had gone Cleone felt as though her head were full of fire. Her cheeks burned, her eyes were glittering. Lady Malmerstoke looked at her.

Her ladyship cast a shrewd glance towards the back of Cleone's head. She smiled unseen.

"Well, my love, to turn to other matters, which is it to be—Philip or Sir Deryk?"

"Which are you going to smile upon? You have given both a deal of encouragement. I don't count young James, of course. He's a babe."

"I don't like Sir Deryk. No, I don't like him at all. He has no true politeness, or he would have talked a little more to me, or to Jenny. Which do you intend to wed, my dear?"

"My dear Cleone!" Her ladyship was shocked. "Then why do you encourage them to make love to you? Now be advised by me! Have Sir Deryk!"

"No more I do. But that's not to say he'd make a bad husband. On the contrary. He'd let you do as you please, and he'd not be for ever pestering you with his presence."

Cleone stood for a moment, irresolute. Then she burst into tears and ran out of the room.

"There's hope for you yet, Philip," she remarked, and prepared to go to sleep. It was not to be. Barely five minutes later Sir Maurice was ushered into the room.

"Really, Maurice, you should know better than to take a woman unawares!" she said severely. "Your family has been in and out the house all the morning. What's the matter now?"

"Quite incoherent," said Sir Maurice. "He has talked a deal of nonsense about love-passions belonging only to the young, but I never saw a man so madly elated in my life."

"You ridiculous woman!" He smiled a little. "Does she care for Philip, or does she not?"

"Well"—my lady bit her finger—"I've been asking her that question, or one like it, myself."

"Of course I am anxious! I tell you Philip is head over ears in love with the child! And she—"

"And she," finished her ladyship deliberately, "will need a deal of convincing that it is so. We are told that Philip is in love with Ann Nutley. We know that Philip trifled elegantly with various French ladies. We see him being kind to little Jennifer. And so on."

"I? Does it matter what I know? It is what Cleone knows, but there's naught under the sun so unreasonable as a maid in love."

"Leave 'em alone," counselled her ladyship. "There's no good to be got out of interfering. Philip must play his own game."

"You can tell him from me that there is hope, but that he must go carefully. And now I'm going to sleep. Good bye, Maurice."

Sixteen
Mistress Cleone Finds There Is No Safety in Numbers

When Philip entered the ballroom of my lady Dering's house, on Wednesday evening, Lady Malmerstoke had already arrived. Cleone was dancing with Sir Deryk; Jennifer was sitting beside her ladyship, looking very shy and very bewildered. As soon as he could do so, Philip made his way to that end of the room.

"He preferred to go to White's with Tom. Jenny, you'll dance with me, will you not? Remember, you promised!"

"It's monstrous kind of you, Philip—but—but are you sure you want to lead me out?"

"I don't think I do, but I am sure you under-rate your dancing. Let us essay each other!"

From across the room Cleone saw them. She promptly looked away, but contrived, nevertheless, to keep an eye on their movements. She saw Philip presently lead Jenny to a chair and sit talking to her. Then he hailed a passing friend and presented him to Jennifer. Cleone watched him walk across the room to a knot of men. He returned to Jennifer with several of them. Unreasoning anger shook Cleone. Why did Philip care what happened to Jennifer? Why was he so assiduous in his attentions? She told herself she was an ill-natured cat, but she was still angry. From Jennifer Philip went to Ann Nutley.

"There he goes! I declare, Philip Jettan makes love to every pretty woman he meets! Just look at them!"

"Always so abominably French, too. Mistress Ann seems amused. I believe Jettan is a great favourite with the ladies of Paris."

Suddenly Cleone remembered that duel that Philip had fought "over the fair name of some French maid."

"Do you think so? Oh, here he comes! Evidently the lovely Ann does not satisfy him.... Your servant, sir!"

"Oh, I have but this instant sat down!" she said. "I protest I am fatigued and very hot!"

"I know of a cool withdrawing-room," said Brenderby at once. "Let me take you to it, fairest!"

"It's very kind, Sir Deryk, but I do not think I will go. If I might have a glass of ratafia?" she added plaintively, looking at Philip.

"Oh, thank you, sir!" This was not what Cleone wanted at all. "Well, Mr. Jettan, you have not yet fled to Paris?"

"No, mademoiselle, not yet. To-night will decide whether I go or stay." His voice was rather stern.

Cleone gasped in amazement. Unreasoning fury shook her. That Philip should dare to come to her straight from the smiles of Ann Nutley! She glanced at him. He was quite solemn. Could it be that he mocked her? She forced herself to speak lightly.

"I am in earnest, Cleone, never more so. We have played at cross-purposes long enough."

His voice sent a thrill through her. Almost he was the Philip of Little Fittledean. Cleone forced herself to remember that he was not.

"Yes, Cleone. Before you sent me away I was honest with you. When I came back, no. I wished to see whether you wanted me as I was, or as I pretended to be. You foiled me. Now I am again honest with you. I say that I love you, and I want you to be my wife."

"You say that you love me...." Cleone tapped her fan on her knee. "Perhaps you will continue to be honest with me, sir. Am I the only one you have loved?"

"And what of the ladies of the French Court, Mr. Jettan? What of a certain duel you fought with a French husband? You can explain that, no doubt?"

"I will be frank with you. A certain measure of truth there was. M. de Foli-Martin thought himself injured. It was not so."

"Yes?" Cleone spoke gently, dangerously. "You paid court to madame. No doubt she was very lovely?"

"As lovely, perhaps, as Mademoiselle de Marcherand, of whom I have heard, or as Mistress Ann Nutley yonder? Or as lovely as Jennifer?"

"Jealous? What right have I to be jealous? You are nothing to me, Mr. Jettan! I confess that once I—liked you. You have changed since then. You cannot deny that you have made love to a score of beautiful women since you left home. I do not blame you for that. You are free to do as you please. What I will not support is that you should come to me with your proposal, having shown me during the time that you have spent in England that I am no more to you than Ann Nutley, or Julie de Marcherand. 'To the Pearl that Trembles in her Ear,' was it not? Very pretty, sir. And now I intrigue you for the moment. I cannot consider myself flattered, Mr. Jettan."

"Cleone, you wrong me! It is true that I have trifled harmlessly with those ladies. It is the fashion—the fashion you bade me follow. There has never been aught serious betwixt any woman and me. That I swear!"

"No? Then will you tell me, sir, how it is that you expect me to believe what M. de Foli-Martin—closely concerned—would not believe?"

"You bring me"—Cleone's voice trembled—"a tarnished reputation. I've no mind to it, sir. You have made love to a dozen other women. Perhaps you have kissed them. And—and now you offer me—your kisses! I like unspoilt wares, sir."

Her hand half flew towards him and fell again. Couldn't he understand that she wanted him to beat down her resistance? Did he care no more than that? If only he would deny everything and master her!

"I hasten to relieve you of my obnoxious presence. Your servant, mademoiselle." Philip bowed. He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Cleone stricken.

Her fan dropped unheeded to the ground. Philip had gone! He had not understood that she wanted to be overruled, overcome. He had gone, and he would never come back. In those few minutes he had been the Philip she loved, not the flippant gallant of the past weeks. Tears came into Cleone's eyes. Why, why had he been so provoking? And oh, why had she let him go? She knew now beyond question that he was the only man she could ever love, or had ever loved. Now he had left her, and would go back to Paris. Nothing mattered, she did not care what became of her once she had lost Philip.

James Winton, never far away, came to her side and sat down. Cleone greeted him mechanically and proceeded to follow out her own line of dismal thought. Through a haze of misery she heard James' voice. It sounded rather shy, and very anxious. She had not the faintest idea of what he was saying, but she felt vaguely annoyed by his persistency. Presently these words filtered through to her brain:

As James had been blurting out a carefully-worded proposal of marriage, he was not flattered by this answer. He rose, hurt to the bottom of his youthful soul.

"Oh, don't worry me, James! I've said yes. What is it? You are so persistent, and I wish to be quiet!"

"I will leave you, madam. I offered you my hand and my heart." With that he walked off, a picture of outraged dignity.

"Take me away from this!" she begged. "I—I am nigh fainting from the heat! I—oh, I must be quiet! The fiddling goes through and through my head. I—oh, take me somewhere cool!"

"Why, of course, dearest! I know of a small withdrawing-room nearby. Take my arm, it's stifling in here!" He led her across the room to where a heavy curtain hung, shutting off a small, dimly-lighted apartment.

Meanwhile Philip had gone to Lady Malmerstoke's side. He sat down, frowning gloomily.

"No, you do not," said her ladyship. "You must have played your cards monstrously badly. Trust a man."

"I asked her to marry me—and she flung my wretched Paris affaires in my face."

"Great heavens, Philip! Frank with a woman? God help you, then! And what next? Did you tell Cleone not to be a fool? Did you insist that she should listen to you?"

"You didn't. You walked off when you should have mastered her. I'll wager my best necklet she was waiting for you to assert yourself. And now she's probably miserable. Serve her right, and you too."

"Not but what I don't sympathise with the child," continued her ladyship inexorably. "Of course, she is a fool, but so are all girls. A woman of my age don't inquire too closely into a man's past—we've learned wisdom. Cleone knows that you have trifled with a dozen other women. Bless you, she don't think the worse of you for that!"

"For goodness' sake, don't try to tell me what she said, Philip! What's that to do with it?"

"So she may have. That does not mean that she meant it, does it?" asked her ladyship in great scorn.

"Don't start talking French at me, child, for I can't bear it! You should know by now that no woman means what she says when it's to a man."

"Oh, stop, stop! Lady Malmerstoke, you don't understand! Cleone does think the worse of me for those intrigues! She is very angry!"

"Mais, voyons! Just now you said that she does not think the worse of me for it!"

"But surely not two such—such contradictory things! I have never done so in my life!"

"You! You're only a man! You've not our gifts! I can tell you!" My lady spread out her fan. "Why, a woman can think of a hundred different things at once, all of them contradictory!" She nodded at him complacently.

"Jump. From one thing to another. You'll arrive at a new thought by degrees, and you'll know how you got there. Women don't think like that. Cleone could not tell you why she thinks well and ill of you at once, but she does."

"You're mad," said Lady Malmerstoke with conviction. "Women don't reason. That's a man's part. Why, do you suppose that if Cleone thought as you think, and had a brain like a man's, you'd be in love with her? Of course you'd not. You'd not be able to feel your superiority over her. Don't tell me!"

"Oh, don't you, Philip? You think that Clo is reasonable-minded, and able to care for herself, needing no master?"

"That's what I say. Goodness me, how blind you are! If you didn't consider that you had to care for Cleone and guard her from everyone else and herself, you wouldn't love her. Now don't be foolish!"

"Well, I should be at my age. I've had experience, you see, and I never was a fool."

"Take that girl and shake her. Tell her you'll not be flouted. Tell her she's a little fool, and kiss her. And if she protests, go on kissing her. Dear me, what things I do say!"

"Yes, but, dear Lady Sally, how am I to kiss her when she's as cold as ice—and—and so unapproachable?"

"Not a bit of it. Because you treat her gently and politely, and let her flout you. God bless my soul, women don't want gentle politeness! Not Cleone, at all events! They like a man to be brutal!"

"Well, not exactly. They like to feel he'll stand no airs and graces. Oh, they want gentleness, never fear! But they want to feel helpless. They want mastering, most of 'em. When you kiss the tips of Clo's fingers, and treat her as though you thought she was made o' porcelain, she thinks you're no man, and don't care for her."

"She don't know it, of course, but it's true. Be advised by me, Philip, and insist on having your way with her. Don't be finicky!"

"Oh, drat the man!" said her ladyship. "You fatigue me! Go your own road, but don't blame me when everything goes awry. If you have made Clo miserable she'll do something mad. And now I've warned you. Oh, here is James, looking like a sulky bear! James, my good boy, I've left my handkerchief in another room. Will you fetch it for me, please? Over there, behind the curtain. Yes, shocking, isn't it? But 'twas only old Fotheringham, so you can tell your uncle, Philip."

"Not he," said Lady Malmerstoke placidly. "I'm past the age of wanting that nonsense. Not that I ever wanted it, but I was always unusual. Be off with you!"

"We are summarily dismissed! Come, Jamie, we'll find her handkerchief, and she'll smile again."

In the withdrawing-room Cleone was dicing with Sir Deryk. A very unmaidenly proceeding. She had just lost the rose at her breast to Brenderby, and he was trying to undo the pin that held it in place. Failing in that, he grasped the stem firmly, and broke off the bloom. But with the rose he had clutched a thin blue riband from which hung a locket. It snapped, and the trinket rolled on to the floor.

Surprised at her earnestness, Brenderby went down on his knees, and presently retrieved the locket just as Cleone had seen it. He rose, and was about to present it to her when she clasped agitated hands and demanded that it should be given her at once! This aroused Sir Deryk's curiosity. He withheld it.

"Not so fast, Cleone! I'll swear there's some mystery here! I've a mind to peep inside!"

"I forbid you!" said Cleone. "Sir Deryk—" She controlled herself. "Please give it me!"

"Oh, no, no! There's naught! I could not bear you to look! Besides, it's—it's empty. I—oh, give it me!" She stamped angrily.

"I'll make a bargain, sweetest! You shall play me for it." He picked up the dice-box. "If you beat my throw, I will give you the locket unopened. If you lose you shall pay a price for it."

"You shall kiss me for it. One hard-earned kiss. Come, you must admit my terms are generous!"

"What I find I keep! Come! The odds are equal, and in neither case do I open the locket."

"So I am, Clo. Were I not—I'd take the price and then the locket. There's no one to see, and no one need know. Cleone—you lovely creature!"

"Why should I be kind when you are not? You'll none of my terms? Very well!" He made as if to open the locket.

"No, no, no!" almost shrieked Cleone. "I'll do anything, anything! Only don't open it!"

"Oh, I trust you'll change your mind! Now!" He cast the dice. "Aha! Can you beat that?"

Cleone took the box in a firm clasp, and shook it long and violently. Her cheeks were burning, her eyes tight shut. She threw the dice. Brenderby bent over the table.

"You are monstrous unk-kind! It's my locket, and I d-don't want to kiss you! I don't, I don't! I hate you!"

"Very well. Kiss me." She stood where she was, face upturned, with the resignation of a martyr.

"By God, Cleone, you're damnably beautiful!" he said thickly. "You've played with fire to-night—but I won't burn you too much!" He bent his head till his lips met hers.

With a cry of horror Cleone sprang away from Sir Deryk, her cheeks flaming. Her wide eyes went from James' face of frozen astonishment to Philip's pale, furious countenance.

Philip took a half-step forward, his hand wrenching at his sword-hilt. Then he checked and slammed the sword back into the scabbard. Cleone had not struggled in Brenderby's embrace. What could he do? He had always thought her in love with the fellow. And on the top of his own proposal.... He swept a magnificent bow.

Cleone winced at the biting sarcasm in his voice. She tried to speak, and failed. What could she say?

Quickly Brenderby stepped to her side. He took her hand in his, and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"Gentlemen, you have the honour of addressing my affianced wife," he said haughtily.

Philip's hand was on the curtain. It clenched slowly. He stood very still, his eyes on Cleone's face.

"Oh!" cried Cleone. "Oh, I—" She stopped helplessly. Heavens, what a position she was in! If she denied that she was betrothed to Brenderby, what could Philip think? What must he think? He had seen her in Sir Deryk's arms; the only excuse was a betrothal. And she had accused Philip of loose behaviour! Whatever happened, he must not think her a light woman! But, oh! how could she say she was betrothed to another when she desired nothing better than to fly to him for protection? She compromised.

"Permit me to offer my felicitations," he said, but his voice was not quite steady.

They all stared at him in amazement. Philip eyed him through his quizzing-glass.

"Bear up a little longer, dear! Of course, I know there is no truth in what Mr. Winton says!"

"It is true!" James danced in his fury. "Cleone promised to wed me, only a little while back! You can't deny it, Clo! You did!"

Cleone leaned on the nearest thing to her for support. It chanced to be Sir Deryk, but she was past caring.

Suddenly Philip's lips twitched. Brenderby was bubbling over with ill-suppressed merriment.

"And I." Sir Deryk passed his arm round Cleone's waist. "I hold Cleone to the promise she has given me!"

"Probably the lady would be glad of a chair," he suggested evenly. "James, Brenderby—let your future wife sit down!"

Sir Deryk's shoulders shook. He led Cleone to the couch, and she sank on to it, hiding her face.

"Permit me to withdraw. Decidedly I am de trop. Mademoiselle, messieurs!" He went out, and the curtain fell back into place.

"It's neither of you! Don't—touch me! Oh, that I should be so humiliated! I will not marry you, James! You know that I never heard what you said!"

"You must release me, James!" cried Cleone. "I—I am going to wed—Sir Deryk!" She dissolved into tears. "Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do? How—how dreadful it is! Let me go! I hate you both!" She fled from them and was at her aunt's side before either had time to follow her.

"Good gracious, child, what's amiss?" exclaimed Lady Malmerstoke. "You're as white as my wig!"

"Take me home!" begged Cleone. "I am b-betrothed to Sir Deryk and James! Oh, for heaven's sake, take me home!"

Seventeen
Mistress Cleone at Her Wits' End

Sir Maurice and his brother were sitting at breakfast next morning when Philip burst in on them. Tom jumped up and swore.

Philip paid not the slightest heed to him. He grasped his father by the shoulder.

"God alone knows!" cried Philip. He sank into a chair and rejected his uncle's offer of breakfast. "Breakfast? What have I to do with food when I'm nigh demented?"

"Drink's the thing," agreed Tom placidly. He pushed a tankard of ale towards his nephew. "What ails you, lad?"

"What!" Sir Maurice dropped his knife. "Betrothed to Brenderby and Winton? You're raving!"

"Would to God I were!" Philip emerged from the tankard, and wiped his lips with his fathers napkin. "I asked her to marry me at the ball last night. She refused; I won't tell you her exact words. Half an hour later I found her kissing ce scélérat Brenderby in a secluded corner!" He laughed savagely.

"No, I do not! Voyons, would he be alive now had he dared embrace Cleone against her will? She submitted—she wished it!"

"You must believe it. She is betrothed to him. She said it herself. James was with me. He interposed, saying that she was already promised to him."

"Faith, the child is rich in—" He caught Philips eye and subsided. "Oh, ay, ay! Go on."

"The proper thing to have done," said Tom solemnly, "was to have struck an attitude and said, 'Not so! The girl is mine!'"

"Don't sneer, Philip," interposed Sir Maurice. "There must be something behind all this."

"That's what I hope and trust! You must go at once to Lady Malmerstoke's!" His head sank into his hands and he gave way to a gust of laughter. "Oh, Gad! neither would give way an inch. Both held Clo to her promise!"

"Mon cher père, I have my own game to play. Now go to Lady Malmerstoke's, I implore you!"

"The very man I wish to see!" exclaimed Lady Malmerstoke. "Maurry, never were you more opportune!"

Sir Maurice kissed her hand with punctilious politeness. He then smiled at Cleone, who stood by the table, pale and wan-looking.

"And what's to happen to t'other? You can't wed two men, my dear. I'm not sure that I shall consent to your marrying either."

"What's this?" Sir Maurice spoke with well-feigned astonishment. "Cleone, you are not betrothed, surely?"

"To two men," nodded her aunt. "I have never been so amused in my life. I always considered myself to be flighty, but I'll swear I never was engaged to two men at one and the same time!"

"But—good heavens, my dear! This is dreadful! How could such a thing have come to pass?"

"Of course it's dreadful," said her ladyship. "Think of the scandal when it is known. And that'll be soon, I'll wager. Brenderby will never keep such a piece of spice to himself." As she spoke, one of her eyelids flickered. Sir Maurice smiled, unseen by Cleone.

"You—forget, Aunt. I am going to—wed—Sir Deryk." A shudder ran through her at the thought.

"No one can help me," said Cleone miserably. "I must bear the pain of my own folly. I—oh, I have been so wicked!"

"I may as well tell you. It will be all over town by to-night—everyone will know me for a flirtatious, flighty woman. I—"

"Naught. I—I—oh, Sir Maurice, Sir Maurice, I am so unhappy!" Cleone burst into tears.

"It—it was at the ball last n-night. I—I—no, first James proposed—to me, and I said yes, but I didn't mean it!"

"I didn't hear what he said—I—I said yes because he worried so! And—and he knew I didn't mean it, for he walked away. Then I—I—went with Sir Deryk to a room apart—"

"Oh, I know, I know! It was terrible of me, but I was so upset—I hardly cared what I did!"

"No—I—I—something—else—I can't tell you! Anyway—Sir Deryk took me to this room, and—and taught me to—to dice—yes, I know it was horrid! And—and I lost my rose to him, and when he—was taking it, he broke the string of my locket, and he wouldn't give it me, but said he must see what was inside, and I couldn't let him! I couldn't!"

"For heaven's sake, don't ask her that!" begged Lady Malmerstoke. "It sets her off into floods of tears!"

"Aunt, please! And—and so I played him—for it—and I lost and had to—to kiss him—for it. Don't, don't look at me! And then—and then he came—with James—and saw! What he must think of me! And I said that he—Oh, he must—"

"Who is 'he'?" asked Sir Maurice innocently. He watched a tell-tale blush steal up under Cleone's fingers.

"Mr.—Mr. Jettan—I—he—saw me kiss—Sir Deryk! Then—then—I think, to spare me—Sir Deryk said I was his betrothed wife. I could not say I was not, could I? It was too dreadful! And Phil—Mr. Jettan congratulated us! But James suddenly said he was going to marry me because I had said yes to him—by mistake! Of course I said I was not, but he wouldn't release me from my word, and nor would Sir Deryk! Then—then he—Ph—I mean Mr. Jettan—just bowed and went away, but I could see what he—thought of—of me. Oh, what shall I do? Neither will let me go! I am betrothed to two gentlemen, and—oh, what shall I do?"

Sir Maurice took a pinch of snuff. A smile hovered about his mouth. He shut the box with a snap.

"It seems, my dear, that the situation calls for a third gentleman," he said, and picked up his hat.

"It needs a masterful hand to extricate you from your delicate position," he said. "I go in search of such a hand."

"Well, child, you are not dead. I refuse to see you fall into Brenderby's clutches, and I refuse to countenance the scandal that would arise if you rejected him. I am too old to serve you, but I know of one who is not."

"Sir Maurice, I implore you, do not speak to him! You don't understand! You—Oh, stop, stop!"

"You need not fear that the third gentleman will cause you any annoyance, my dear. I can vouch for his discretion."

"Sir Maurice, you don't understand! You must not ask Ph—your son to—to—help me! I—I didn't tell you all! I—Oh, come back!"

"A very prompt, wise man," commented Lady Malmerstoke. "Now I am to be baulked of the scandal. Hey-dey!"

"I can't face him! I can't, I can't! What must he think of me? What must he think? Aunt, you don't know all!"

"No, no, you do not! Philip asked me to marry him—and—I refused! I—I—told him—I would not marry a man with a tarnished reputation! I—I said that—and worse! I accused him of trifling and—and—oh, it's too awful! That he should have been the one to see! How he must scorn me. Oh, Aunt, Aunt, can't you say something?"

"Ay, one thing. That you will have to be very humble to Master Philip. At least, he was never betrothed twice in one night."

"I'll not see him! I—oh, I must go home at once! I must, I must! Everything is all my fault! I ought never to have—sent him away! And now—and now he despises me!"

"I—how could he do else? Don't—don't you realise how dreadful I have been? And—and his face—when—when he—heard everything! He'll never never believe—the truth!"

François admitted Sir Maurice. His round face was perturbed. It cleared somewhat at the sight of Sir Maurice.

"Ah, m'sieur, entrez donc! M'sieur Philippe he is like one mad!—He rage, he go up and down the room like a caged beast! It is a woman, without doubt it is a woman! I have known it depuis longtemps! Something terrible has happened! M'sieur is hors de lui-même!"

"Well? You have seen her? Is she in love with Brenderby? Is she to wed him? What did she tell you?"

"At the present moment Cleone is betrothed. Very much so," he added, chuckling. "I am about to put the whole matter into your hands."

"Not at all. She is insistent that you shall not be appealed to. In fact, she was almost frantic when I suggested it."

"Sit down and be quiet," said Sir Maurice severely. "I am on the point of telling you."

"And don't interrupt." Sir Maurice proceeded to relate all that he had heard from Cleone.... "And she was so upset that she went with Brenderby, not caring what happened. That is the whole story," he ended.

"Sacré nom de Dieu, the tables are turned, indeed. Oh, Clo, Clo, you wicked little hussy! And what was in that locket?"

"And I shall. Mordieu, never did I dream of such a solution to my difficulties!"

"Thunder of God, she will have me now if I have to force her to the altar! Ciel, you have taken a load off my mind, sir! I thought she cared for Brenderby! She smiled on him so consistently. And now for ce cher Brenderby! I am going to enjoy myself."

"Am I so clumsy? Not a whisper shall there be! François, François! My hat, my cloak, my boots, and my SWORD!"

Eighteen
Philip Takes Charge of the Situation

"Jettan? What can he want with me? Ay, I'll come." He rose and went languidly downstairs. "This is an unexpected honour, Jettan! Come in!" He led Philip into a large room. "Is it a mere friendly visit?"

"Anything but that," said Philip. "I have come to tell you that you will not be able to wed Mistress Cleone Charteris."

"I trust you will allow me to persuade you?" Philip patted his sword-hilt lovingly.

"Is it a fight you're wanting? By Gad, no man has ever had need to challenge me twice! Here? Now? Help me push the table back!"

"One moment! You love a hazard, I think? I fight you for the right to wed Mistress Cleone. If I win you relinquish all claim upon her, and you swear never to breathe a word of what passed last night. If you win—oh, if you win, you do as you please!"

"Ay, aught you will! I've been pining for a fight for many a long day. You're a man after my heart, stap me if you're not! Here, wait while I fetch my sword!" He hurried out of the room, returning in a very short time with a rapier. "I've told my man that you have come to fence with me. But we'll lock the door in case of accidents. How does my sword measure with yours?"

"Very well." His eyes danced suddenly. "Dieu! I never thought to fight so strange a duel!" He pulled off his boots. "We'll fight in wigs, yes? One is so displeasing without a hair to one's head."

"A dozen, if you like!" Brenderby struggled out of his coat and vest. "You know, you are shorter than I am. We're not fair matched."

Opening in quarte, Brenderby seemed at first to be the better of the two. Philip stayed on the defensive, parrying deftly and allowing Brenderby to expend his energies. Once Brenderby's blade flashed out and all but pinked Philip, but he managed to recover his opposition in time. His eyes opened wider; he became more cautious. Suddenly he descried an opening and lunged forward. There was a moment's scuffle, and Brenderby put the murderous point aside. Then Philip seemed to quicken. When Brenderby began to pant, Philip changed his tactics, and gave back thrust for thrust. His wrist was like flexible steel; his footwork was superb; the whole style of his fencing was different from that of Brenderby.

All at once Brenderby saw an opening. He thrust in quinte, steel scraped against steel, and Philip's point flashed into his right arm above the elbow.

Brenderby staggered back, clutched at his arm, and tried to raise his sword again. But Philip was at his side, supporting him.

"It's only a flesh wound—painful now—bien sûr. It will—heal quickly. I do not—mistake," he gasped.

"But yes! I fight—no more. You cannot—keep your blade—steady—now! Sit down!" He lowered Brenderby into a chair, and whisked out his handkerchief. He bound up Sir Deryk's wound and fetched him a glass of wine from a decanter on the sideboard.

"Thanks!" Sir Deryk gulped it down. "But where are my manners? Pour some for yourself, Jettan! Gad, but you pinked me neatly!" He seemed to slip back into his habitual drawl. "As pretty a piece of sword-play as I wish to see. But you fence French-fashion."

"No!" Brenderby heaved himself up. "Corvoisier, forsooth! No wonder you're so quick!"

"Heaven forbid! I've no mind to tie myself up yet awhile. Your entrance last night forced me to say what I did to spare the lady's blushes. I'd no notion of continuing the comedy, until young Winton thrust in with his prior claim. Gad, but 'twas amusing! Did you not find it so?"

"I? No. But I was closely concerned in the affair, you see. I may take it that you will say naught of last night's work?"

"Of course not. 'Twas a mad jest, but I'd not let it go so far as to damage a lady's reputation. And you may tell Mistress Cleone that I apologise—for what happened before. She's too damnably beautiful."

"'Damnably' is not the word I should employ, but n'importe." He sat down and started to pull on his boots. "I have enjoyed myself. I said I should."

"Tare an' 'ouns, so have I! It's an age since I've had a sword in my hand. I am indebted to you, sir."

"Ay, I'd have kept you at it longer, but I don't know that the issue would have been different. You must go?"

"Oh, stuff! I'd no notion of holding Cleone to her promise, but I could not resist the offer of a fight. I wish you could see how monstrous amusing it was, though!"

"Had it been anyone but Cleone I might have been able to appreciate the humour of the situation! I trust the wound will heal quickly."

"Oh, that's naught! A mere prick, but I was winded. Fare ye well, Jettan. My felicitations! You felicitated me last night, did you not?" He laughed.

"With black murder in my heart!" nodded Philip. "I do not say good bye, but au revoir!"

Philip grasped it. Brenderby accompanied him to the front door and waved to him as he ran down the steps.

Philip waved back at him and turned to hail a passing chair. He instructed the bearers to carry him to Jermyn Street.

It seemed that the luck was indeed with him, for he arrived just as James was descending the steps of his house. Philip sprang out, paid the chairmen, and took Winton's arm.

"I'll not give her up to that fellow Brenderby!" he said fiercely. "It's more than flesh and blood can bear."

"Ah, but no! that is at an end. Brenderby releases her. He is not so bad a man as you think. En effet, I like him."

"To-day I have seen him in another light. But that is not what I have to say. Cleone does not wish to marry you, mon enfant, and it is churlish to persist."

"I know she'll never marry me," answered James gloomily. "I only held her to her word because I thought she'd have Brenderby if I did not."

"There were reasons. They no longer exist. Come, Jamie, don't look so glum! You are young yet."

"It's easy to say that. Oh, I knew I never had a chance with her! I congratulate you, Philip."

Nineteen
Philip Justifies His Chin

"I will not see him! Aunt Sarah, I beg you will go to him! Please spare me this—humiliation!"

"Turn your back, then," said her unsympathetic aunt. "I wonder what he has done?"

"D-do you think he—could have—arranged everything?" asked Cleone, with a gleam of hope.

"From what I have seen of him, I should say yes. A masterful young man, my dear. Else why that chin?" She moved to the door. Philip came in, immaculate as ever. "Ah, Philip!"

Philip shot a look past her. Cleone had fled to the window. He bent and kissed Lady Malmerstoke's hand.

"Oh, that chin!" said her ladyship, and patted it. She went out and Philip closed the door behind her.

Cleone's fingers clasped one another desperately. Her heart seemed to have jumped into her throat. It almost choked her. She dared not look round. She heard the rustle of Philip's coat-skirts. Never, never had she felt so ashamed, or so frightened.

"I have the honour of informing you, mademoiselle, that you are released from your engagements."

"I—thank you—sir," whispered Cleone. Her teeth clenched in an effort to keep back the tears. She was blinded by them, and her bosom was heaving.

There was a slight pause. Why did he not go? Did he wish to see her still more humiliated?

"I have also to offer, on Sir Deryk's behalf, his apologies for the happenings of last night, mademoiselle."

The feel of his arms about her was sheer bliss; their strength was like a haven of refuge. Yet Cleone tried to thrust him away.

"Why, that you are a dear, foolish, naughty little Cleone. Chérie, don't cry. It is only your Philip—your own Philip, who has always loved you, and only you. Look up, my darling, look up!"

"Oh, Philip—forgive me!" she wept. "I have—been mad!" She raised her head and Philips arms tightened still more. He bent over her and kissed her parted lips almost fiercely.

Later, seated beside him on the couch, her head on his shoulder, and his arm about her, Cleone gave a great sigh.

"I was hurt, darling, and wished to see whether you wanted the real me—or a painted puppet. But then you changed suddenly—and I knew not what to think."

"Because I thought you—did not care! But oh, Philip, Philip, I have been so unhappy!"

"No, oh no! But—but—that duel with Mr. Bancroft. Was it—was it—some—French lady?"

"Of course I am! I—oo!" She gave a little wriggle of delight. "Why did you not tell me?"

"Cleone, you think too much," he chided her. "Next you will accuse me of loving Ann Nutley!" It was a master-stroke, and he knew it.

"But never, most beautiful, did I become engaged—twice in one evening!" He stifled the cry that rose to her lips.

"No—I could not." She fumbled at her bosom and drew out the trinket. "See for yourself, Philip."

He opened it. A rolled lock of brown hair fell out and a torn scrap of parchment. Philip turned it over.

Twenty
Mademoiselle de Chaucheron Rings Down the Curtain

Sir Maurice Jettan stood in the withdrawing-room of the Hotel Cleone and studied himself in the glass. He smiled a little and straightened his shoulders.

There came a swish of skirts in the passage without, and the door opened. In walked Cleone, a fair vision in a gown of pure white satin and lace.

Sir Maurice turned. He raised his quizzing-glass the better to inspect his daughter-in-law.

"Is it not ridiculous? Philip insisted. Wait till you see him!" She ran to the mirror. "Do you like the way my hair is dressed, father?"

"I am struck dumb by the whole effect!" answered Sir Maurice. "Yes, I like that white rose in your hair."

"Oh, you must tell Philip that! He spent hours and hours trying to place it to his entire satisfaction! It has been terrible, je t'assure. Yes, I am beginning to acquire an accent, am I not? Philip nearly tore his beautiful wig in his anxiety!" She re-arranged the roses at her breast. "At one time I expected him to summon François to his assistance. But he refrained, and here am I!"

"Has he—! For the past three hours, sir! He has driven my maid distracted." She started to count on her fingers. "He spent half an hour superintending my hair-dressing and another half an hour placing this rose and the pearls. Then half an hour went to my patches—this is when he nearly tore his wig!—he could not decide where to put them. The arrangement of my gown occupied quite an hour in all. And then he was much put out over my jewels." She held up her fingers. "I vow they are red and sore, sir! I have had rings pushed on them, and dragged off them, until I was nigh screaming with impatience! But now I am dressed—and I have been told on pain of Philip's direst wrath to n'y toucher pas!" She sat down on the couch beside Sir Maurice and slipped her hand in his. "Is he not absurd? And oh, I am prodigious nervous!"

"You see, it is my first appearance in Paris—it is to be my first ball—and I am so afraid I shall not understand what is said to me, or—or something mortifying!"

"Not understand? Nonsense, Clo! Why, you have talked hardly any English since you have been married."

"Yes, but I am not at all fluent. Philip says everyone will be most amiable, but—oh, dear!"

"Ah, pardon, madame! Pardon, m'sieu'! Je cherche la tabatière de m'sieu' Philippe!"

"Laquelle?" asked Cleone. Sir Maurice was amused by her serious air. "The one with the pearls?"

"Mais oui, madame. It is this fool of a Jacques who has lost it, sans doute! Ah, la voilà!" He seized the errant box and skipped out again. Cleone breathed a sigh of relief.

"I see." Sir Maurice smothered another laugh. "My dear, do you know that it is three years since last I was in this city of cities?"

"Is it? Don't you think it is a wonderful place? Philip took me for a walk yesterday, and I was enchanted! And this house—I know I shall never bear to leave it! Philip says that the Hotel Cleone will be the most fashionable one in Paris! I was so surprised when he brought me here! I had no idea that there was a house waiting for me. He and François got all ready the week before our marriage! I've never been so happy in my life! And to-night I am to see Philip in what he calls his milieu. He tells me he was never at home in London."

"Philip in his milieu. Paris." Sir Maurice smiled down at her. "When I think of what Philip was not quite a year ago...."

"It seems impossible, doesn't it? But oh, I am glad now that I sent him away. He is quite, quite perfect!"

"Minx! I confess I am curious to see Philip in his Parisian Society. No one knows that he is here?"

"Not a soul. He insisted on guarding the secret until he could make a really dramatic appearance at the Duchesse de Sauverin's ball to-night. He is mad, you know, quite mad! Oh, here he is!"

Philip came into the room with a rustle of stiff silks. Sir Maurice started at him.

From head to foot his son was clad in white. The only splash of colour was the red heels of his shoes; his only jewels were pearls and diamonds; on the lapel of his coat he wore a single white rose.

"Stand up, child, and let me see you side by side.... Yes. What audacity! Had I known, I would have attired myself in black—the old man at the ball."

"'Twould have made an excellent foil," agreed Philip. "But no matter. Cleone, you have re-arranged your roses!"

"One of them must kiss your skin, so! To show that it is no whiter than the skin. Voilà, c'est bien!"

"Tout le monde. One always goes to Madame de Sauverin's balls. It is de rigueur."

There was a sudden hush. All eyes turned to the late-comers. In the doorway stood a tall gentleman, at his side two dazzling visions in white.

Madame de Sauverin stared for a moment in wonderment. Then she hurried forward, hands outstretched.

"Philippe! Le petit Philippe!" A score of voices took up the cry. Nearly everyone there surged forward.

"Your—wife!" Madame took Cleone's hands. "Voyons, voyons, notre petit Philippe s'est éspousé! Et Maurice!"

Philip and Cleone were at the centre of a welcoming throng. Cleone's hand was kissed a dozen times. Delighted questions were shot at Philip.

"Mon cher petit! You have returned at last? Et madame!" He bowed to the blushing Cleone. "There is no need to ask who is, madame." He smiled at her. "It is evident that her name is Cleone!"

"The mysterious Cleone! Madame, votre serviteur! We have all longed to see the lady who so consistently held Philip's heart!"

"Philippe, how long have you been in Paris?" demanded De Chatelin. "You are going to remain? Ah bon!"

Philip disengaged himself from the clutches of Saint-Dantin and took his wife's hand.

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