"Faute de mieux. And whence, if I may ask, did you glean all this—sordid information, oh my righteous son?"
"From Tom, of course. He could talk of nothing else."
"Alack! The saint is still upon his pedestal. In fact, the story was forced upon you. Philip, you enrage me." He looked up and met his son's amused glance. "Yes, child, I am enraged. Pass the wine."
Philip pushed the decanter towards him. His rather stern eyes were twinkling.
"I'll swear no one ever before possessed so outrageous a sire," he said. "I've heard of some who disinherited their sons for disreputable behaviour, but it seems you are like to disinherit me for irreproachable conduct."
"It's a piquante situation," agreed Sir Maurice. "But I shan't disinherit you."
"No?"
"Where's the use? With no money you could not hope to—ah—follow in my footsteps. I've a mind to turn you out of the house, though."
"Half a mind," corrected Philip. "The other half, sir, rejoices in my unblemished reputation."
"Does it?" Sir Maurice was mildly interested. "Faith, I did not know that."