"So you are now a painted puppet?" said Tom politely.
"What else?"
"Dear me!" said Tom, and relapsed into profound meditation.
"I want to have her love me for—myself, and not for my clothes, or my airs and graces. It's incomprehensible?"
"Not entirely," answered Tom. "I understand your feelings. What's to do?"
"Merely my baggage," said Philip, with another glance towards the window. "It is the coach that you hear."
"No, not that." Tom listened. Voices raised in altercation sounded in the hall.
Philip laughed.
"That is the inimitable François. I do not think that Moggat finds favour in his eyes."
"I'll swear he does not find favour in Moggat's eyes! Who is the other one?"