"Is he so remarkable? I heard about that absurd duel, as I told you. There'll be a reckoning between him and Cleone."
"Ay. That's what I don't understand. The pair of them are playing a queer game. Old Sally Malmerstoke told me that Cleone vows she hates Philip. The chit is flirting outrageously with every man who comes—always under Philip's nose. And Philip laughs. Yet I'll swear he means to have her. I don't interfere. They must work out their own quarrel."
"Clo doesn't hate Philip," said Sir Maurice. "She was pining for him until that fool Bancroft read us Satterthwaite's letter. Was it true that Philip fought over some French hussy?"
"No, over Clo herself. But he says naught, and if the truth were told, I believe it's because he has had affaires in Paris, even if that was not one. He's too dangerously popular."
"So it seemed from Satterthwaite's account. Is he so popular? I cannot understand it."
"He's novel, y'see. I'd a letter from Château-Banvau the other day, mourning the loss of ce cher petit Philippe, and demanding whether he had found his heart or no!"
Sir Maurice drove his cane downwards.
"By Gad, if Philip's so great a success, it's—it's more than ever I expected," he ended lamely.
"Wait till you see him!" smiled Thomas. "The boy's for all the world like a bit o' quicksilver. He splutters out French almost every time he opens his mouth, and—here he is!"
A door banged loudly outside, and a clear, crisp voice floated into the library from the hall.