"Jacques, my groom and homme à tout faire!"
"Faith, ye've a retinue!"
"What would you?" shrugged Philip. He sat down opposite his uncle, and stretched his legs to the fire. "Heigh-ho! I do not like this weather."
"Nor anyone else. What are you going to do, now that you have returned?"
"Who knows? I make my bow to London Society, I amuse myself a little—ah yes! and I procure a house."
"Do you make your bow to Cleone?"
An impish smile danced into Philip's eyes.
"I present myself to Cleone—as she would have had me. A drawling, conceited, and mincing fop. Which I am not, believe me!"
Tom considered him.
"No, you're not. You don't drawl."