Powder and Patch

Chapter XIII. 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.

“Where’s your master, Moggat?” demanded the visitor abruptly. Moggat held the door wide.

“In the library, sir. Will you step inside?”

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.

“By the way-” Sir Maurice paused, looking back. “My baggage follows me.” “Very good, sir.”

Sir Maurice opened the door and disappeared.

Thomas was seated at his desk, but at the sound of the opening door he turned. “Why, Maurry!” He sprang up. “Gad, this is a surprise! How are ye, lad?” He wrung his brother’s hand.

Sir Maurice flung a sheet of paper on to the table. “What the devil’s the meaning of that?” he demanded. “Why the heat?” asked the surprised Thomas. “Read that-that impertinence!” ordered Sir Maurice.

Tom picked up the paper and spread it open. At sight of the writing he smiled. “Oh, Philip!” he remarked.

“Philip? Philip, write me that letter? It’s no more Philip than-than a cock-robin!” Tom sat down.

“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 Chateau-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?” Sir Maurice had stalked to the window. Now he turned.

“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?”

Tom re-opened the letter.

“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?”

Sir Maurice sank on to the couch. “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.”

“So I thought at the time, but I’ve changed my opinion.”

“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.”

Sir Maurice grunted.

“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 spice 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.”

Sir Maurice looked up. “He’s-the same Philip?”

“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.”

Sir Maurice straightened himself. He sighed. “An old fool, eh, Tom? But it cut me to the quick, that letter.”

“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 Chateau-Banvau the other day, mourning the loss of ce cher petit Philippe, and demanding whether he had found his heart or no!” Sir Maurice drove his cane downwards.

“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 crépin, 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 not 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!” Then came Moggat’s voice, very self-conscious.

“C’est comme moosoo désire?”

There was a sound of hand-clapping, and an amused laugh.

“Voyons, c’est fameux! Quite the French scholar, eh, Moggat? Where’s my uncle? In the library?”

Came a quick step across the hall. Philip swirled into the room. “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!”

Tom coughed and walked to the window.

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.

“You patched and painted puppy-dog,” he mimicked softly.

Philip laughed. His hands found Sir Maurice’s again and gripped hard. “Alack, too true! Father, you’re looking older.”

“Impudent young scapegrace! What would you? I have but one son.” “And you missed him?”

“A little,” acknowledged Sir Maurice. Philip rose to his feet.

“Ah, but I am glad! And you are sorry you sent him away?”

“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?” “Here by now.”

“Here? But no, no! It must go to Curzon Street!”

“My dear son, I thank you very much, but an old man is better with an old man.” Tom wheeled round.

“What’s that? Who are you calling an old man, Maurry? I’m as young as ever I was!” “In any case, it is to Curzon Street that you come, Father.”

“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.”

“And what was the ode you threatened to read?”

“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?”

“Not at all! It is your elegant, smooth, and wholly possible Philip!” Sir Maurice sat up again.

“Ah! And does this Philip contemplate marriage?” “That,” said his son, “is on the knees of the gods.” “I see. Is it woe unto him who seeks to interfere?” “Parfaitement!” bowed Philip. “I play now-a little game.” “And Cleone?”

“Cleone … I don’t know. It is what I wish to find out. Lady Malmerstoke stands my friend.” “Trust Sally,” said Tom.

Philip’s eyes sparkled.

“Ah, Tom, Tom, art a rogue! Father, he is in love with her ladyship!” “He always has been,” answered Sir Maurice. “Even before old Malmerstoke died.” Tom cleared his throat.

“Then why do you not wed her?” demanded Philip.

“She will 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.”

“Philip, how do you like Paris?” interrupted Sir Maurice.

“I cannot tell you, sir! My feeling for Paris and my Paris friends is beyond all words.” “Ay. I thought the same. But in the end one is glad to come home.”

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

“Ah, I am too old for that now,” answered Sir Maurice. He smiled reminiscently.

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

“De Richelieu? Where did you meet him, boy?”

“At Versailles. He was very kind to me for your sake.” “Ay, he would be. So you went to Versailles, then!” “Often.”

“Philip, I begin to think you are somewhat of a rake. What attracted you to Versailles?” “Many things,” parried Philip.

“Female things?”

“What curiosity! Sometimes, yes, but not au sérieux.” “Little Philip without a heart, eh?”

“Who told you that?” Philip leaned forward. “Satterthwaite wrote it, or something like it.”

“Le Petit Philippe au Coeur Perdu. Most of them would give their eyes to know who the fair unknown may be!”

“Is it still Cleone?” Sir Maurice looked sharply across at him. “It has-never been anyone else,” answered Philip simply. “I am glad. I want you to marry her, Philip.”

“Sir,” said Philip superbly, “I have every intention of so doing.”

Chapter XIV. The Strange Behaviour of Mistress Cleone

“François, there is one below who desires m’sieur.”

François shook out a fine lace ruffle.

“Qu’est-ce?”

“Le père de m’sieur,” answered Jacques gloomily. François cast the ruffle aside.

“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.

François bowed very low.

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

Sir Maurice smiled.

“Assurement. Vous allez marcher en tête?” François’ face broke into a delighted smile. “Ah, m’sieur parle français! Si m’sieur veut me suivre?”

“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.”

“A serious matter,” agreed Sir Maurice.

“M’sieur understands well. Me, I am valet of M’sieur Philippe.” “I had guessed it. You are François?”

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

“Certainly he has spoken of you,” smiled Sir Maurice. “It is perhaps-that he tell you I am un petit singe?”

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

“The vest of M’sieur Philippe,” he said reverently.

“So I see,” said Sir Maurice. “What’s he doing lying abed so late?” “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.”

“Monsieur Philippe is very particular, eh?”

François beamed. He was opening various pots in readiness for his master. “Yes, m’sieur. M’sieur Philippe must have everything just as he likes it.” At that moment Philip walked in, wrapped in a gorgeous silk robe, and looking thunderous. When he saw his father his brow cleared.

“You, sir? Have you waited long?”

“No, only ten minutes or so. Have you strangled the tailor?” Philip laughed.

“De près! François, I will be alone with m’sieur.” François bowed. He went out with his usual hurried gait. Philip sat down before his dressing-table.

“What do you think of the incomparable François?” he asked. “He startled me at first,” smiled Sir Maurice. “A droll little creature.” “But quite inimitable. You’re out early this morning, sir?” “My dear Philip, it is close on noon! I have been to see Cleone.”

Philip picked up a nail-polisher and passed it gently across his fingers. “Ah?”

“Philip, I am worried.”

“Yes?” Philip was intent on his nails. “And why?”

“I don’t understand the child! I could have sworn she was dying for you to return!” Philip glanced up quickly.

“That is true?”

“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. While I was there three posies arrived from admirers. 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.

Sir Maurice leaned forward, striking his fist on his knee. “But she is not that type of woman, Philip! That’s what I can’t understand!” Philip shrugged slightly.

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

“Ay! To tease you!”

“Cela se peut. This time it is not to tease me. That I know.” “But, Philip, if it is not for that, why does she do it?”

“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.”

“Cleone would never do such a thing!”

“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?” Philip rubbed some rouge on to his cheeks.

“If you can tell me the answer to that riddle, sir, I shall thank you.” “You do care, Philip? Still?” He watched Philip pick up the haresfoot with fingers that trembled a little.

“Care?” said Philip. “I-yes, sir. I care-greatly.”

Lady Malmerstoke glanced critically at her niece. “You are very gay, Clo,” she remarked.

“Gay?” cried Cleone. “How could I be sober, Aunt Sally? I am employing myself so much!” Lady Malmerstoke pushed a bracelet farther up one plump arm.

“H’m!” she said. “It’s very unfashionable, my dear, not to say bourgeois.” “Oh, fiddle!” answered Cleone. “Who thinks that?”

“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 curtsy.

“No,” said her ladyship placidly. “One is not like to forget it.” “What do you mean?” demanded Cleone.

“Don’t eat me,” sighed her aunt. “’Tis your principal charm-freshness.” “Oh!” said Cleone doubtfully.

“Or it was,” added Lady Malmerstoke, folding her hands and closing her eyes. “Was! Aunt Sally, I insist that you tell me what it is you mean!” “My love, you know very well what I mean.”

“No, I do not! I-I-Aunt Sally, wake up!” Her ladyship’s brown eyes opened.

“Well, my dear, if you must have it, ’tis this-you make yourself cheap by your flirtatious ways.”

Cleone’s cheeks flamed.

“I-oh, I don’t f-flirt! I-Auntie, how can you say so?”

“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.”

“It has nothing to do with Ph-Mr Jettan!”

“I beg your pardon, my dear, I thought it had. But if you wish to attract him-” “Aunt!” almost shrieked Cleone.

“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!” The sleepy brown eyes grew more alert.

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

“He hasn’t done anything. He-I-” “Then what hasn’t he done?”

“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?”

“Of course I never thought of such a thing! I-why should I?”

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

“How dare you say such things, Aunt! It-it isn’t true!” Lady Malmerstoke continued to pursue her own line of thought.

“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.” “Mind!” Cleone was scornful. “He has no mind above clothes or poems!” Lady Malmerstoke eyed her lazily.

“Who told you that, Clo?”

“No one. I can see for myself!”

“There’s nothing blinder than a very young woman,” philosophised her ladyship. “One lives and one learns. Your Philip-”

“He isn’t my Philip!” cried Cleone, nearly in tears.

“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!” “He-he’s no more masterful than-than his uncle!”

“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.” Cleone broke into a hysterical laugh.

“Aunt, you are incorrigible! How can you talk so?”

“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.”

“Why, is it still a pose, Aunt?”

“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!”

Lady Malmerstoke dragged herself up.

“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?” Cleone was peering out of the window.

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

Lady Malmerstoke studied herself in her little mirror. “Is she the child who lives down in the country?”

“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. “Oh, Clo, how prodigious elegant you look!” she whispered.

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

“How do you do, ma’am?” she said in a voice fluttering with nervousness. “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.

“Yes, ma’am. It is so exciting.”

“I’ll warrant it is! And have you been to many balls, yet?”

“N-no.” The little face clouded over. “Papa does not go out very much,” she explained. Cleone sank on to a stool beside them, her silks swirling about her.

“Oh, Auntie, please take Jenny to the Bering ball next week!” she said impulsively. “You will come, won’t you, sweet?”

Jennifer blushed and stammered.

“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?” Jennifer was covered with confusion.

“Oh, no, ma’am, I-”

Her ladyship chuckled.

“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 is just a little more impossible than the last.”

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

“Could she be impertinent?” asked James fondly. “Very easily she could, and is,” nodded her ladyship. “A minx.” “Oh!” Jennifer was shocked.

“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.

“You-you seem quite different,” she told her. Cleone shook her golden head.

“’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?”

“Always the same,” he said ardently. “Always beautiful.”

“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!” James went to the window.

“Too late,” he said. “They are in, whoever they are.”

“’Twill be Thomas,” decided Lady Malmerstoke. “I wonder if he is any fatter?” Jennifer giggled. She had never met anything quite like this queer, voluminous old lady before.

“Is-is Sir Maurice coming?” she inquired.

“I told him to be sure to come,” answered her ladyship. “You know him, don’t you?” “Oh, yes!” breathed Jennifer.

“Sah Maurice and Mr. Jettan,” announced the little black page.

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

Sir Maurice kissed her hand.

“Sally, you grow ruder and ruder,” he reproved her.

“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?”

Thomas bowed very low. “Well, Sally?”

“That’s not polite,” she said. “You can see I am very well. I declare you are growing thinner!” Thomas drew himself up sheepishly.

“Am I, my dear?”

Her ladyship gave a little crow of delight.

“You’ve been taking exercise!” she exclaimed. “If you continue at this rate-I vow I’ll marry you in a month!”

“I wish you would, my dear,” said Tom seriously.

“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. “I? What have I done? She’s shocked at your forwardness!”

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

“Oh, no, no!” she cried. “Sir Maurice!” He smiled down at her upturned face.

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

Her mouth quivered suddenly; she caught at the lapels of his coat. “No, no, don’t say it, sir! I am the same! Oh I am, I am!”

“What’s Cleone doing?” inquired Lady Malmerstoke. “Kissing Maurice? Now who’s forward?”

Cleone smiled through her tears.

“You are, Aunt Sally. And you are in a very teasing humour!” Sir Maurice pressed her hands gently. He turned to the curtsying Jennifer. “Why, Jenny? This is a surprise! How are you, child?”

“Very well, I thank you, sir,” she answered. “Very happy to be in London.” “The first visit! Where are you staying?”

“With Grandmamma, out at Kensington,” she said. Lady Malmerstoke clutched Tom’s arm.

“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. “Madame, I am late!” said Philip. “I ask a thousand pardons!”

“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?”

“I knew instinctively,” answered Philip solemnly.

“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?”

“I should be more than human an I did not!” replied Philip promptly. Lady Malmerstoke was showing the dainty roll to Sir Maurice. “An ode to my wig,” she told him. “Written in French.” “An ode to your what?” asked Thomas.

“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?”

Philip was bowing over Cleone’s hand. He turned.

“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?”

Philip released Cleone’s hand, and swung round.

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

Jennifer gazed up at him with wide eyes. “Philip? Is-is it really-you?” she whispered.

“You didn’t know me? Jenny, how unkind! Surely I haven’t changed as much as that?” “Y-you have,” she averred. “More!”

“I have not, I swear I have not! Father, go away! Let me sit here and talk to Jennifer!” Only too glad to obey, Sir Maurice rose.

“He is very peremptory and autocratic, isn’t he, my dear?” he smiled. Philip sank into the vacated chair.

“I-I feel I ought to call you Mr Jettan!” said Jennifer. “Jenny! If you dare to do such a thing I shall-I shall-” “What will you do?”

“Write a canzonet to your big eyes!” he laughed. Jennifer blushed, and her lips trembled into a smile. “Will you really? I should like that, I think, Mr Jettan.”

“It shall be ready by noon tomorrow,” said Philip at once, “if you will promise not to misname me!”

“But-”

“Jenny, I vow I have not changed so much! ’Tis only my silly clothes!” “That’s-what Clo said when I told her she had changed.”

“Oh!” Philip shot a glance towards the unconscious Cleone. “Did she say that?” “Yes. But I think she has changed, don’t you?”

“De tête en pieds,” said Philip slowly. “What is that?” Jennifer looked rather alarmed. Philip turned back to her.

“That is a foolish habit, Jenny. They say I chatter French all day. Which is very affected.” “French? D’you talk French now? How wonderful!” breathed Jennifer. “Say something else! Please!”

“La lumière de tes beaux yeux me pénètre jusqu’au coeur.” He bowed, smiling. “Oh! What does that mean?”

“It wouldn’t be good for you to know,” answered Philip gravely. “Oh! but I would like to know, I think,” she said naively. “I said that-you have very beautiful eyes.”

“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!”

“Is it? What is my flower?” “A daisy.”

She considered this.

“I do not like daisies very much. Haven’t I another flower?” “Yes, a snowdrop.”

“Oh, that is pretty!” She clapped her hands, “Is it too late for snowdrops?” “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!”

Jennifer giggled.

“But you couldn’t, could you? Cleone! Cleone!” Cleone came across the room.

“Yes, Jenny? Has Mr Jettan been saying dreadfully flattering things to you?” “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?”

Philip had risen. He put a chair forward for Cleone.

“Can you ask, Jenny? What but a rose?” Cleone sat down. Her lips smiled steadily.” “A rose? Surely it’s a flaunting flower, sir?”

“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!”

Philip’s eyes travelled to the violets at her breast. “I did not send violets,” he said mournfully. Cleone’s eyes flashed.

“No. These”-she touched the flowers caressingly-“I have from Sir Deryk Brenderby.” “He is very fortunate, mademoiselle. Would that I were also!”

“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-

“Mr Jett-I mean Philip! Will you teach me to say something in French?” “Why, of course, chèrie. What would you say?” The pulse stopped its excited beating; the blue eyes lost their wistful softness. Cleone turned to James, who stood at her elbow.