Cleone rose and walked to the window. She opened it, cooling her hot cheeks. And there she stayed, seated on the low couch that ran under the window, until Bancroft finally took his departure.
When Sir Maurice returned from seeing his guest out of the house, he found her pale again, and very stiff.
"Ahem!" said Sir Maurice. Then, brusquely: "Pack o' lies!"
"Do you think so?" said Cleone hopefully.
"Of course I do! The boy is but doing what I told him to do—acquiring polish and savoir faire with your sex, my dear."
Cleone sprang up.
"You told him to—oh, how could you, sir?"
"My dear, it's less than nothing, I dare swear. But Philip worsting Bancroft like that! Philip the pet of Society! Gad, I never hoped for this!"
"Nor I," said Cleone bitterly. "And—and 'tis my own—f-fault—for—s-sending him away—s-so c-cruelly, but—but—oh, how dare he?"
Sir Maurice was silent.