"What the devil's the meaning of that?" he demanded.
"Why the heat?" asked the surprised Thomas.
"Read that—that impertinence!" ordered Sir Maurice.
Tom picked up the paper and spread it open. At sight of the writing he smiled.
"Oh, Philip!" he remarked.
"Philip? Philip write me that letter? It's no more Philip than—than a cock-robin!"
Tom sat down.
"Oh, yes it is!" he said. "I recognise his hand. Now don't tramp up and down like that, Maurry! Sit down!" He glanced down the sheet and smothered a laugh.
"'My very dear Papa,'" he read aloud. "'I do trust that you are enjoying your Customary Good Health and that these fogs and bitter winds have not permeated so far as to Little Fittledean. As you will observe by the above written address, I have returned to this most barbarous land. For how long I shall allow myself to be persuaded to remain I cannot tell you, but after the affinity of Paris and the charm of the Parisians, London is quite insupportable. But for the present I remain, malgré tout. You will forgive me, I know, that I do not come to visit you at the Pride. The mere thought of the country at this season fills me with incalculable dismay. So I suggest, dear Father, that you honour me by enlivening with your presence this house that I have acquired from Sir Humphrey Grandcourt. Some small entertainment I can promise you, and my friends assure me that the culinary efforts of my chef are beyond compare. An exaggeration, believe me, which one who has tasted the wonders of a Paris cuisine will easily descry. I have to convey to you the compliments of M. de Château-Banvau and others. I would write more but that I am in labour with an ode. Believe me, Dear Father, thy most devoted, humble, and obedient son,—PHILIPPE.'" Tom folded the paper. "Very proper," he remarked. "What's amiss?"
Sir Maurice had stalked to the window. Now he turned.