Philip glanced round quickly. Young James Winton was threading his way towards them. Philip sprang up.
"James!" He held out his hands to the puzzled youth. "You have forgotten, James? And it is, so Mademoiselle tells me, but six months since I saw you every day."
Winton stared. Then suddenly he grasped Philip's jewelled hand.
"Jettan—Philip! Merciful heavens, man, is it indeed you?"
"He is quite transformed, is he not?" said Cleone lightly. A little barb was piercing her heart that Philip should show such pleasure at seeing James, and merely bored affectation with her.
Philip's gay laugh rang out.
"I shall write a sonnet in melancholy vein," he promised. "A sonnet to "Friends Who Knew Me Not." It will be a chef-d'œuvre, and I shall send it you tied with a sprig of myrtle."
Winton stepped back the better to observe him.
"Thunder and turf, tis marvellous! What's this about a sonnet? Don't tell me ye have turned poet!"
"In Paris they do not love my verses," mourned Philip. "They would say, 'No, le petit Philippe se trompe.' But you shall see! Where are you staying?"