He had gone; now he had come back, the business details settled to his satisfaction, but with no wig. Sir Maurice was pleased to see him again, more pleased than he appeared, as Philip was well aware. He listened to what his son had to tell him of Tom Jettan, failed to glean any of the latest society gossip, and dismissed Philip from his presence.
Half an hour later Philip rode in at the gates of Sharley House, sitting straight in his saddle, a pulse in his throat throbbing in anticipation.
Cleone saw him coming. She was seated in the parlour window, embroidering in a languid fashion. Truth to tell, she was tired of her own company and not at all averse from seeing Philip. As he passed the window she bent forward a little, smiling down at him. Philip saw her at once; indeed, he had been eyeing every window of the warm, red house in the hope that she might be sitting in one. He reined in his horse and bowed to her, hat in hand.
Cleone opened the casement wider, leaning over the sill, her golden curls falling forward under the strings of her cap.
"Why, sir, are you back already?" she asked, dimpling.
"Already!" he echoed. "It has been years! Ten years, Cleone!"
"Pooh!" she said. "Ten days—not a moment more!"
"Is that all it has seemed to you?" he said.
Cleone's cheek became faintly tinged with pink.