Sir Maurice raised one delicate hand.
"Pardon me! You choose to assume that I thought it. Mr. Bancroft is, as you so truly remark, a conceited, painted puppet. But he apes, so far as he is able, the thing that I am; that I wish you to become. You are a country-bumpkin, my dear; he is a coddled doll. Strive to become something betwixt the two."
"I had sooner be what I am!"
"Which is a conceited oaf."
"Sir!"
Sir Maurice rose, leaning on his cane.
"Remain what you are, my son, but bethink you—which will Cleone prefer? Him who gives her graceful homage, and charms her ears with honeyed words, or him who is tongue-tied before her, who is careless of his appearance, and who treats her, not as a young and beautiful girl, but as his inevitable possession?"
Philip answered quickly.
"Cleone, sir, will—give herself where she pleases, but she is not one to over-rate the tricks of such as Bancroft."
"Or to under-rate the discomforts of tying herself to one who is tied to the soil and his own pleasure," said Sir Maurice softly.