"I cannot bear to think of Philip as being callous, flippant, and—a mere fop!"
"'Twould be your own fault if he were," said Tom severely. "But he's not. Something inside him has blossomed forth. Philip is now pure joy."
Sir Maurice grunted.
"It's true, lad. That letter—oh, ay! He's a young rascal, but 'twas to avenge his injured feelings, I take it. He was devilish hurt when you and Cleone sent him away betwixt you. He's still hurt that you should have done it. I can't fathom the workings of his mind, but he assures me they are very complex. He is glad that you sent him, but he wants you to be sorry. Or rather, Cleone. The lad is very forgiving to you"—Tom laughed—"but that letter is a piece of devilry—he has plenty of it, I warn you! He hoped you'd be as angry as you are and wish your work undone. There's no lack of affection."
Sir Maurice looked up.
"He's—the same Philip?"
"Never think it! In a way he's the same, but there's more of him—ay, and a score of affectations. In about ten minutes"—he glanced at the clock—"he'll be here. So you'll see for yourself."
Sir Maurice straightened himself. He sighed.
"An old fool, eh, Tom? But it cut me to the quick, that letter."
"Of course it did, the young devil! Oh, Maurry, Maurry, ye never saw the like of our Philip!"