"Sir, were I to break away and become as flighty as you wish, no one would be more aghast than yourself."
"You infer, my son, that I desire you to follow not in my footsteps, but in—let us say, Bancroft's. Nothing could more thoroughly disgust me."
"Ah!" Philip leaned forward eagerly. "You admit that?"
Sir Maurice sipped his wine.
"Certainly. I abhor clumsiness in an affaire." He watched Philip draw back. "An affaire of the heart should be daintily conducted. A Jettan should bear in mind that for him there can be only one love; the others," he waved his hand, "should be treated with the delicacy that they deserve. Above all, they should end lightly. I would have no woman the worse for you, child, but I would have you know women and the world. I would have you experience the pleasures and the displeasures of Polite Society; I would have you taste the joys of Hazard, and the exhilaration of your sword against another's; I would have you take pains in the selection of a cravat, or the designing of a vest; I would have you learn the way to turn a neat compliment and a pretty phrase; above all, I would have you know yourself, your fellow-men, and the world." He paused, studying his son. Then he smiled. "Well? What have you to say to my peroration?"
Philip answered simply, and in admiration.
"Why, sir, that I am spellbound by your fluency. In truth, Father, you have a remarkably beautiful voice."
"Bah!" snapped Sir Maurice.