"Good night, Wentworth," he said cordially, after an instant of irresolution.
There was a moment of awkward silence.
"Phil!" broke in his mother, in a tone of surprised reproof.
The young man sprang to his feet and turned a flushed, shamed face upon Clifford.
"I say, Faxon," he faltered huskily, "this has been too much for me! I've been a cad and a knave time and again, but you have set your heel upon me pretty effectually this time! I am simply crushed. You have done to-night what I did not believe any man was capable of doing, and when you entered the room I was in a more murderous frame of mind than I have ever been before; but you have taken the starch all out of me, and I am ready now to eat humble pie. If you won't feel insulted, after all that has passed, I'd like to ask you to shake hands and wipe out old scores."
Clifford's hand went out to him with instant cordiality.
"Gladly!" he said, and in that friendly clasp there was ratified a treaty which endured throughout their lives.
No other word was spoken, for Philip was now beyond the power of speech, and Clifford, recognizing the fact, beat a considerate retreat, and left the house with a buoyant heart, an elastic step, a smile on his lips, and the consciousness of a noble victory gleaming in his expressive brown eyes, for of an enemy he had at last made a friend.
Mrs. Temple and Philip set themselves immediately about winding up Mr. Temple's affairs, and both seemed to have undergone a radical transformation.
The proud, gay butterfly of fashion had suddenly become the gentle, tender, considerate mother—a thoughtful, womanly woman; the indolent, aimless man was fast developing into an attentive son, a wise adviser, an efficient helper and protector.