"Mordieu, what a climate! Moggat, you rogue, am I not depressed enough without your glum face to make me more so? Smile, vieux crétin, for the love of God!"
"Were I to call Moggat one-half of the names Philip bestows on him, he'd leave me," remarked Tom. "With him, Philip can do no wrong. Now what's to do?"
"Doucement, malheureux! Gently, I say! Do you wish to pull my arms off with the coat? Ah, voilà! Spread it to dry, Moggat, and take care not to crease it. Yes, that is well!"
Then came Moggat's voice, very self-conscious.
"C'est comme moosoo désire?"
There was a sound of hand-clapping, and an amused laugh.
"Voyons, c'est fameux! Quite the French scholar, eh, Moggat? Where's my uncle? In the library?"
Came a quick step across the hall. Philip swirled into the room.
"Much have I borne in silence, Tom, but this rain—" He broke off. The next moment he was on one knee before his father, Sir Maurice's thin hands pressed to his lips. "Father!"
Tom coughed and walked to the window.