"Well met, Philip, my boy! What's to do now?"
Philip sank into a chair.
"I'll tell you when I'm fed," he grinned. "That sirloin pleases my eye."
"Not an artistic colour," said Tom, studying it, "but appetising, I grant you."
"Artistic be damned!" said Philip, attacking it. Then he frowned. "H'm! No, Tom, 'tis a displeasing blend—red and brown."
Tom looked at him in surprise.
"What's colour to you, Philip?"
"Naught, God help me," answered Philip, and fell to with a will.
"I echo that sentiment," said Tom. "How does your father?"
"Well enough; he sends you his love."