"Don't be a fool, lad! It's that fair chit, eh? Charlotte—no, damn it, some heathenish name!"
"Cleone," supplied Philip, submitting.
"Ay, that's it—Cleone. Well, Maurice and Cleone think that ye'll gain a little polish and some style. What you must do is excel. Excel!"
"I doubt I could not," said Philip. "And, indeed, I've no mind to."
"Then I've done with you." Tom leaned back in his chair with an air of finality.
"No, no, Tom! You must help me!"
A stern eye was fixed on him.
"Ye must put yourself in my hands, then."
"Ay, but—"
"Completely," said Tom inexorably.