"An ode to importunate friends, especially composed for the occasion. They took it from me—Paul and Louis—oh, and Henri de Chatelin! They do not like my verse."
Sir Maurice lay back in his seat and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.
"Gad, Philip, but I wish I'd been there! To hear you declaim an ode of your own making! Faith, is it really my blunt, brusque, impossible Philip?"
"Not at all! It is your elegant, smooth, and wholly possible Philip!"
Sir Maurice sat up again.
"Ah! And does this Philip contemplate marriage?"
"That," said his son, "is on the knees of the gods."
"I see. Is it woe unto him who seeks to interfere?"
"Parfaitement!" bowed Philip. "I play now—a little game."
"And Cleone?"