"With Darchit—in Jermyn Street. I came to London in my lady's train." He bowed to Cleone.
Philip's eyes narrowed.
"Aha! James, you will come to a card-party that I am giving to-morrow? I am at 14 Curzon Street."
"Thank you very much, I shall be delighted. Have you set up a house of your own?"
"Sir Humphrey Grandcourt has hired his house to me for a month or so. My ménage will amuse you. I am ruled by my valet, the redoubtable François."
"A French valet!"
"But yes! He would allow no English servant to insult me with his boorishness, so I have his cousin for chef." He threw a laughing glance at Cleone. "You would smile, Mademoiselle, could you but hear his so fierce denunciation of the English race."
Cleone forced a laugh.
"I suppose he does not regard you as English, Mr. Jettan?"
"If I suggest such a thing he accuses me of mocking him. Ah, there is Miss Florence who beckons me! Mademoiselle will excuse me?" He bowed with a great flourish. "I shall hope to be allowed to wait on madame, your aunt. James, do not forget! To-morrow at 14 Curzon Street!" He swept round on his heel and went quickly to where Mistress Florence Farmer was seated. Cleone watched him kiss the lady's plump hand, and saw the ogling glances that Florence sent him. Desperately she sought to swallow the lump in her throat. She started to flirt with the adoring James. Out of the corner of his eye Philip watched her.