At the present time Philip had just returned from Town, whither he had been sent by his father, ostensibly to transact some business concerning the estate, but really that his unfashionable soul might succumb to the delights of Town. Philip was not aware of this secret purpose, but Cleone knew all about it. She was very fond of Sir Maurice, and he of her. When Sir Maurice saw which way Philip looked for a wife, he was pleased enough, although a Jettan might have cast his eyes much higher. But Sir Maurice, mindful of the old adage, was content to let things run their course. All that worried him was the apparent obduracy of his son in the matter of the first prophecy. He loved Philip, he did not wish to lose him, he liked his companionship, but—"By God, sir, you are a damned dull dog!"
At that young Philip's straight brows drew close over the bridge of his nose, only to relax again as he smiled.
"Well, sir, I hold two gay dogs in the family to be enough."
Sir Maurice's mouth quivered responsively.
"What's that, Philip? Do you seek to reprove me?"
"Not a whit, sir. You are you, but I—am I."
"So it seems," said his father. "And you being yourself have fallen in love with a mighty pretty child; still being yourself, you are like to be left disconsolate."
Philip had flushed slightly at the reference to Cleone. The end of the sentence left him frowning.
"What mean you, sir?"
The shrewd grey eyes, so like his own, regarded him pityingly.