Powder and Patch

Chapter V. 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 realized 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, chaffed 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.

Philip threw himself down upon a bench.

“Well, sir, Bancroft and I have met.” “I thought it would come,” nodded his father. “I’m no match for him. He-pinked me with some ease.” Again Sir Maurice nodded.

“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.”

“And so-?”

Philip was silent.

“And so Mr Jettan withdraws from the lists. Very fine,” added Sir Maurice. “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 or 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?” Philip shrugged.

“As well to him as any other. I care not.”

“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.”

Philip flung out his arm. “My heart’s here, sir, at home!”

“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 a sport of me for her amusement!” “Tra-la-la-la!” said Maurice. “Then why go to London?”

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

Sir Maurice returned to Juvenal.

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 chid 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.

“Well met, Philip, my boy! What’s to do now?” Philip sank into a chair.

“I’ll tell you when I’m fed,” he grinned. “That sirloin pleases my eye.” “Not an artistic colour,” said Tom, studying it, “but appetising, I grant you.” “Artistic be damned!” said Philip, attacking it. Then he frowned. “H’m! No, Tom, ’tis a displeasing blend-red and brown.”

Tom looked at him in surprise. “What’s colour to you, Philip?”

“Naught, God help me,” answered Philip, and fell to with a will. “I echo that sentiment,” said Tom. “How does your father?” “Well enough; he sends you his love.”

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. “Well, Philip, what brings you here? Moggat, you rascal, away with you!” Philip waited until the door had closed upon Moggat’s reluctant back. “I’ve-to learn to be-a gentleman,” he said.

Tom stared at him. Then he burst out laughing. “God ha’ mercy, Philip, has it come to that?” “I do not take your meaning,” said Philip crossly. “What! It’s not a petticoat?”

“Tom, I’ll thank you to-to-be quiet!” Tom choked his laughter.

“Oh, I’m dumb! How do you propose to set about the task?” “’Tis what I want to know, Tom,”

“And I’m to teach you?”

Philip hesitated.

“Is it perhaps-a thing I can best; learn alone?” he asked, surprisingly diffident. “What is it exactly you want to learn?”

“To become a gentleman. Have I not said it?” “Odd rot, what are ye now?”

Philip’s lips curled.

“I have it on the best authority, Tom, that I am a clumsy, witless clod-hopper.” His uncle regarded him with some kindliness.

“Little vixen,” he remarked sapiently. “I beg your pardon?” Philip was cold.

“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 fingernail 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

— ”

“Oh, ’tis not my qualities they object to! ’Tis my lack of vice.”

“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.”

“I doubt I shall,” said Philip, with the glimmering of a smile.

Tom was wrapped in thought; his eyes ran over his nephew’s form appraisingly. “Ye’ve a fine figure, and good legs. Your hands?”

Philip extended them, laughing.

“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.”

“Am I?” Philip was startled. “I never knew that before!”

“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?”

“I don’t see why you should assu-”

“Don’t be a fool, lad! It’s that fair chit, eh? Charlotte-no, damn it, some heathenish name!” “Cleone,” supplied Philip, submitting.

“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 to excel. Excel!”

“I doubt I could not,” said Philip. “And, indeed, I’ve no mind to.” “Then I’ve done with you.” Tom leaned back in his chair with an air of finality.

“No, no, Tom! You must help me!”

A stern eye was fixed on him.

“Ye must put yourself in my hands, then.” “Ay, but-”

“Completely,” said Tom inexorably. Philip collapsed. “Oh, very well!”

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.

Philip was horrified.

“What! I? To Paris? Never!” “Then I wash my-”

“But, Tom, consider! I know so little French!” “The more reason.”

“But-but damn it, I say I will not!” Tom yawned.

“As ye will.”

Philip became more and more unhappy. “Why should I go to Paris?” he growled.

“You’re like a surly bear,” reproved Tom. “Where else would you go?” “Can’t I-surely I can learn all I want here?”

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

Philip had not thought of that. He relapsed into sulky silence.

“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.” Philip brightened.

“Will you? That’s devilish good of you, Tom!”

“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.”

This dazzling prospect did not appear to allure Philip. He sighed heavily. “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!” “I thought-this one-was different.”

“More fool you,” said Tom cynically.

Chapter VI. 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 tile 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.

François sat back on his heels and eyed Philip’s legs adoringly.

“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, imbecile! ’Ow is it zat I shall arrange your cravat if you tweest and turn like zis? Lift your chin, Philippe!”

“Mais, monsieur, je-je-cela me donne-mal au cou.” “Il faut souffrir pour être bel,” replied the Marquis severely. “So it seems,” said Philip irritably. “Tom, for God’s sake, have done!” His uncle chuckled.

“I’ve finished, never fear. Jean, that is wonderful!”

Le Marquis de Chateau-Banvau stepped back to view his handiwork. “I am not altogether satisfied,” he said musingly.

Philip warded him off.

“No, no, m’sieur! I am sure it is perfection!”

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

“It is well! François, the sapphire pin! Quickly!”

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. The Marquis nodded.

“Yes, Tom, you are right It is a triumph. Sit down, Philippe.” Philip sank into a chair by the dressing-table. “What now? Have you nearly finished?” “Now the rouge. François, haste!” Philip tried to rebel.

“I will not be painted and powdered!” The Marquis fixed him with a cold eye. “Plaît-il?”

“M’sieur-I-I will not!”

“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?”

“But, m’sieur, can I not go without paint?” “You can not.”

Philip smiled ruefully. “Then do your worst!”

“It is not my worst, ingrat. It is my best!” “Your best, then. I am really very grateful, sir.” The Marquis’ lips twitched. He signed to François.

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 earring 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.

The Marquis found him fort amusant, but troublesome. “Forget it, little fool!”

“Forget it?” cried Philip. “How can I forget it when it prevents my moving?” “Quelle absurdité! The sword, Tom!”

“How can I dance in a sword?” protested Philip. “It is de rigueur,” said the Marquis.

Philip fingered the jewelled hilt! “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 snuffbox, and a handkerchief.

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

“Well, my friend?”

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. “Well!” The Marquis grew impatient. “You have nothing to say?”

Philip turned.

“C’est merveilleux!” he breathed.

The Marquis beamed, but he shook his head.

“In time, yes. At present, a thousand times no! C’est gauche, c’est impossible!” Unwontedly humble, Philip begged to be made less gauche.

“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.

“Oh?” queried the Marquis. “Why?” “I don’t like it.”

“You don’t like it? Why not?”

“I don’t know. I’ll only wear sapphires and diamonds.” “By heaven, the boy’s right!” exclaimed Tom. “He should be all blue!”

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

And so went Philip to his first ball.

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 Chateau-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 like 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 masqué, 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.

“I-beg-your pardon?” said Philip stiffly.

“But what a modesty!” cried the Marquis, much amused.

“Is it conceivable that you think me attracted by the smiles of Madame de Foli-Martin?” “But yes! Of course I think it!”

“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, I will take you to Court.”

Philip crossed one elegantly breeched leg over the other. He was, if anything, a little bored. “Yes? Next week, perhaps? I am very much engaged until then.”

The shrewd eyes twinkled.

“The manner is excellent, my friend. You will like to make your bow to the King.” Philip shrugged.

“Certainly. I trust the King will consider himself sufficiently honoured.” “Sans doute,” bowed the Marquis. “But I counsel you, slayer of hearts, to cast your eyes away from la Pompadour.”

“M’sieur, I have already told you-”

“Oh, yes. But you have now the name for-slaying of hearts.” Philip dropped his affectation.

“Good gad! Do you say so, sir? I?”

“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. “What! Even la Salévier?”

“The woman with the enormous wig-oh-ah! She is well enough, but passée, mon cher Marquis, passeé!”

“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.” “Or I shall have a small-sword through my heart, hein?”

Philip smiled.

“That is absurd, sir.”

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.

Chapter VII. 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:

“Le voilà, notre petit Philippe! Eh bien, petit Anglais?”

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

“At thy most exquisite feet, my lady!”

Delighted, she gave him her hand to kiss. “And where have you been this long while, vaurien?” Philip kissed the tips of her fingers, one by one. “Languishing in outer darkness, chérie.”

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

Philip looked up, still holding Mademoiselle’s hand. “Someone has maligned me. Of what am I accused?” Mademoiselle rapped his knuckles with her fan. “Voyons! Have you finished with my hand?” Instantly he turned back to her.

“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. Voila!” “You are indeed a rogue,” she told him. “For you care-not one jot!” “If that were true I were a rogue beyond reprieve,” he answered gaily. “You don’t deceive me, le petit Philippe …! So sweet, so amiable, so great a flatterer-with no heart to lose!”

“Rumour hath it that ’tis already lost,” smiled De Bergeret. “Eh, Philippe?” “Lost an hundred times,” mourned Philip, “and retrieved never!”

“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.”

“But you do not say How is she, la Pompadour?” cried De Salmy. Philip pressed a hand to his forehead.

“La Pompadour? I do not know; I have forgotten. She has blue eyes, not black.” Mademoiselle promptly hid behind her fan.

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.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Bancroft. “’Tis never Mr Jettan?” “Que lui dit-il?” asked Mademoiselle, for Bancroft had spoken in English. Philip bowed distantly.

“M’

sieur?”

“You’ve not forgotten me? Bancroft?”

“Ah-Mr Bancroft! I remember. Your servant, sir.” He bowed again. “Gad, I could scarce credit mine eyes! Nom de Dieu!”

“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 good grace.

“I had no notion of finding him here, mademoiselle. The last time we met was in a wood.” “Tell,” besought the lady. Philip threw out his hands.

“Ah, no, chérie! That meeting was so disastrous to my-vanity!” “Raison de plus,” decided Mademoiselle. “Tell me about it!”

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

“You?” cried Mademoiselle. “Impossible!”

“On the contrary, bien aimée; I was, in those days, a very sorry spectacle, was I not, sir?” “Not so long since,” said Mr Bancroft.

“Six months,” nodded Philip, and turned to speak to the Comte de Saint-Dantin. Mademoiselle was still incredulous.

“A sorry spectacle? Philippe?”

“I scent an intrigue,” said a little Vicomte, “Clothilde, make him tell!” “Of course,” she said. “Philippe!”

Philip swung neatly round to face her. “Chére Clothilde?”

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

“Oh, I’ll give away no man’s secrets!” simpered 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!” “I said that I scented an intrigue,” said the Vicomte tranquilly. “But wait, wait! You in the country, Philippe? You jest!”

“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?”

“I have a natural aptitude,” smiled Philip. “Now are you satisfied?”

“Je n’en reviendrai jamais!” Mademoiselle spoke emphatically. “Jamais, jamais, jamais!” “I am not at all satisfied.”

Philip cocked one eyebrow at the dainty Vicomte. “What more would you have?”

“I would know of what like she is.” “She?”

“The lady to whom your heart is lost.”

“That’s an hundred she’s,” replied Philip airily. “And they are all different!” “I dare swear I could enlighten M. de Ravel,” drawled Bancroft.

All eyes turned his way. Philip seated himself beside Mademoiselle. He was smiling faintly. “Proceed, mon ami. Who is this lady that I have forgotten?”

“Forgotten? Oh, come now, Jettan!”

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.

“He is very fastidious,” sneered Bancroft.

M. le Comte closed his snuffbox and stepped back. He became politely bored. “The subject grows somewhat tedious, I think. Mademoiselle, will you dance?” Bancroft flushed. Mademoiselle sprang up.

“I am promised to Jules!” she nodded, smiling, to De Bergeret. Together they walked away

from the little group.

Saint-Dantin linked arms with Philip.

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

“It’s too fatiguing,” said Philip. “I’ll come.”

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

“A creature of no importance,” shrugged Philip. “So I see. Yet he contrives to arouse your anger? “Yes,” admitted Philip. “I do not like the colour of his coat.”

“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?” “I don’t know. I trust not.”

“He, he! So he interfered between you and the lady?” Philip withdrew his arm.

“Saint-Dantin!”

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

“Am I cold?”

“At the bottom, yes. Is it not so?”

“Certainly it is so. It’s unfashionable to possess a heart.” “Oh, Philippe, thou art a rogue.”

“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-!” “Alas!” sighed Philip, “’tis my only ambition. I shall persevere.”

Saint-Dantin paused, a hand on the curtain that shut off the cardroom. “Your only ambition, Philippe?”

“For the moment,” answered Philip sweetly. “All things pall on one after a time.” “Save the greatest ambition?” Saint-Dantin’s eyes were purely mischievous. “You are as inquisitive as a monkey,” said Philip, and propelled him into the card-room. * * * * * * *

“For how long has that fellow lorded it here?” asked Bancroft of his friend. M. de Chambert flicked one great cuff with his handkerchief, “Oh, some months! He is refreshing, is it not so? So young, so lovable.” “Lovable be damned!” said Bancroft.

De Chambert looked at him in surprise. “You don’t like our little Philippe?” “No, I do not. Conceited young upstart!”

“Con-ah, but no! You misunderstand him! He pretends, and it is very amusing, but he is not conceited; he is just a bébé”

“Damn it, is he everyone’s pet?”

“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.”

“Jealous,” Bancroft snorted. “Jealous of that sprig!” De Chambert cast him a shrewd glance.

“A word is your ear, m’sieur! Do not speak your dislike too widely. Le petit Philippe has powerful friends. You will be frowned upon if you sneer at him.”

Bancroft struggled for words.

“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 smallsword 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!”

“Yes? I heard some talk of that. He is a marvel, our Philippe.” “Curse all marvels!” said Bancroft fervently.