"I am not to go until she is better satisfied with my manners," said Celia, simply.
Philip whistled. "You will not lose much," he answered.
"Don't you like them?"
"What is there to like?" asked Philip, dissecting the tassel of the sofa-cushion. "A thousand yards of satin and lace, or the men and women under them, whose hearts are marble and their brains sawdust! Celia Ingram, don't let my mother spoil you! From the little I see of you now, I know you are not one of them. Indeed, I guessed that from what my mother told me. She said you were absolutely without a scrap of fine breeding—which she meant as a censure, and I took as a compliment. I know what your grand ladies are, and what their fine breeding is! And I hope you are a true English girl, with a heart in you, and not one of these finnicking, fussy, fickle, faithless French-women!"
Philip let the sofa-cushion go when he had relieved his feelings by this burst of alliteration.
"I hope I have a heart, dear Philip," replied Celia. "But can you find no friends anywhere?"
"Just one," said Philip, "that is, beside Ned. You see, when Ned is here, he is master; but when he is away, I am not master: her Ladyship is mistress and master too."
"But surely, Philip, you do not wish to disobey your mother?"
"Disobey my mother!" answered Philip, reflectively, and resuming the sofa-cushion. "Well, Madam, I never get much chance of doing that. You don't know the sort of game my mother can play sometimes!"
"What do you mean, Philip?"