"I did not send violets," he said mournfully.
Cleone's eyes flashed.
"No. These"—she touched the flowers caressingly—"I have from Sir Deryk Brenderby."
"He is very fortunate, mademoiselle. Would that I were also!"
"I think you are, sir. Mistress Ann Nutley wore your carnations yesterday the whole evening." Cleone found that she was looking straight into his eyes. Hurriedly she looked away, but a pulse was beating in her throat. For one fleeting instant she had seen the old Philip, grave, honest, a little appealing. If only—if only—
"Mr. Jett—I mean Philip! Will you teach me to say something in French?"
"Why, of course, chérie. What would you say?"
The pulse stopped its excited beating; the blue eyes lost their wistful softness. Cleone turned to James, who stood at her elbow.