"Mademoiselle, this is a scarce-hoped-for honour," he said. "I have watched and I have hungered. Lord Charles took pity on me, for which I shall never cease to thank him."
Cleone tried to answer, and failed. Dazedly she stared at him, from the powdered curls of his wig to the diamond buckles on his shoes. Philip! Philip! Philip in stiff silks and laces! Philip patched and painted! Philip with jewels scattered about his person, and polished nails! Was she dreaming? This foppish gentleman her blunt Philip? It was incredible, impossible! What was he saying now?
"I little thought to find you here, mademoiselle! You are with Madame Charteris, no doubt?"
Cleone collected her scattered wits. An awful numbness was stealing over her.
"No, I—I am with my aunt, Lady Malmerstoke," she answered.
"Lady Malmerstoke?..." Philip raised his quizzing-glass with one delicate white hand, and through it scanned the room. "Ah yes, the lady in the apple-green toilette! I remember her well, that lady."
"Oh—do you—do you know her?" asked Cleone. She could not drag her eyes from his face.
"I had the felicity of meeting her some nights ago. I forget where."
"R—really?" Cleone decided that this was a nightmare.
Philip sat down beside her.