THE TRANSFORMATION OF PHILIP JETTAN

GEORGETTE HEYER

Bibliographical Note

First publication: Mills & Boon, London, 1923

The original edition was published with the subtitle
A Comedy of Manners,
and the author used the pseudonym Stella Martin.
The book was later published as Powder and Patch,
with Chapter Twenty deleted.

Contents

[One]
The House of Jettan

If you searched among the Downs in Sussex, somewhere between Midhurst and Brighthelmstone, inland a little, and nestling in modest seclusion between two waves of hills, you would find Little Fittledean, a village round which three gentlemen had built their homes. One chose the north side, half a mile away, and on the slope of the Downs. He was Mr. Winton, a dull man with no wife, but two children, James and Jennifer. The second built his house west of the village, not far from the London Road and Great Fittledean. He was one Sir Thomas Jettan. He chose his site carefully, beside a wood, and laid out gardens after the Dutch style. That was way back in the last century when Charles the Second was King, and what had then been a glaring white erection, stark-naked and blatant in its sylvan setting, was now, some seventy years later, a fair place, creeper-hung, and made kindly by the passing of the years. The Jettan who built it became inordinately proud of the house. Never a day passed but he would strut round the grounds, looking at the nude structure from a hundred different points of vantage. It was to be the country seat of the Jettans in their old age; they were to think of it almost as they would think of their children. It was never to be sold; it was to pass from father to son and from son to grandson through countless ages. Nor must it accrue to a female heir, be she never so direct, for old Tom determined that the name of Jettan should always be associated with the house.

Old Tom propounded these notions to the whole countryside. All his friends and his acquaintances were shown the white house and told the tale of its owner's past misdemeanours and his present virtue—a virtue due, he assured them, to the possession of so fair an estate. No more would he pursue the butterfly existence that all his ancestors had pursued before him. This house was his anchor and his interest; he would rear his two sons to reverence it, and it might even be that the tradition which held every Jettan to be a wild fellow at heart should be broken at last.

The neighbours laughed behind their hands at old Tom's childishness. They dubbed the hitherto unnamed house "Tom's Pride," in good-humoured raillery.

Tom Jettan was busy thinking out a suitable name for his home when the countryside's nickname came to his ears. He was not without humour in spite of his vanity, and when the sobriquet had sunk into his brain, he chuckled deep in his chest, and slapped his knee in appreciation. Not a month later the neighbours were horrified to find, cunningly inserted in the wrought-iron gates of the white house, a gilded scroll bearing the legend, "Jettan's Pride." No little apprehension was felt amongst them at having their secret joke thus discovered and utilised, and those who next waited on Tom did so with an air of ashamed nervousness. But Tom soon made it clear that, far from being offended, he was grateful to them for finding an appropriate name for his home.

His hopeful prophecy concerning the breaking of tradition was not realised in either of his sons. The elder, Maurice, sowed all the wild oats of which he was capable before taking up his abode at the Pride; the other, Thomas, never ceased sowing wild oats, and showed no love for the house whatsoever.

When old Tom died he left a will which gave Maurice to understand that if, by the time he was fifty years of age, he still refused to settle down at the Pride, it was to pass to his brother and his brother's heirs.

Thomas counselled Maurice to marry and produce some children.

"For damme if I do, my boy! The old man must have lost his faculties to expect a Jettan to live in this hole! I tell ye flat, Maurice, I'll not have the place. 'Tis you who are the elder, and you must assume the—the responsibilities!" At that he fell a-chuckling, for he was an irrepressible scamp.

"Certainly I shall live here," answered Maurice. "Three months here, and nine months—not here. What's to stop me?"

"Does the will allow it?" asked Tom doubtfully.

"It does not forbid it. And I shall get me a wife."

At that Tom burst out laughing, but checked himself hurriedly as he met his brother's reproving eye.

"God save us, and the old gentleman but three days dead! Not that I meant any disrespect, y'know. Faith, the old man 'ud be the first to laugh with me, stap me if he wouldn't!" He stifled another laugh, and shrugged his shoulders. "Or he would before he went crazy-pious over this devilish great barn of a house. You'll never have the money to keep it, Maurry," he added cheerfully, "let alone a wife."

Maurice twirled his eyeglass, frowning.

"My father has left even more than I expected," he said.

"Oh ay! But it'll be gone after a week's play! God ha' mercy, Maurry, do ye hope to husband it?"

"Nay, I hope to husband a wife. The rest I'll leave to her."

Tom came heavily to his feet. He stared at his brother, round-eyed.

"Blister me, but I believe the place is turning you like the old gentleman! Now, Maurry, Maurry, stiffen your back, man!"

Maurice smiled.

"It'll take more than the Pride to reform me, Tom. I'm thinking that the place is too good to sell or throw away."

"If I could lay my hand on two thousand guineas," said Tom, "anyone could have the Pride for me!"

Maurice looked up quickly.

"Why, Tom, all I've got's yours, you know very well! Take what you want—two thousand or twenty."

"Devilish good of you, Maurry, but I'll not sponge on you yet. No, don't start to argue with me, for my head's not strong enough what with one thing and another. Tell me more of this wife of yours. Who is it to be?"

"I haven't decided," replied Maurice. He yawned slightly. "There are so many to choose from."

"Ay—you're an attractive devil—'pon my word you are! What d'ye say to Lucy Farmer?"

Maurice shuddered.

"Spare me. I had thought of Marianne Tempest."

"What, old Castlehill's daughter? She'd kill you in a month, lad."

"But she is not—dowerless."

"No. But think of it, Maurry! Think of it! A shrew at twenty!"

"Then what do you think of Jane Butterfield?"

Thomas pulled at his lip, irresolute.

"I'm not decrying the girl, Maurice, but Lord! could you live with her?"

"I've not essayed it," answered Maurice.

"No, and marriage is so damned final! 'Tisn't as though ye could live together for a month or so before ye made up your minds. I doubt the girl would not consent to that."

"And if she did consent, one would not desire to wed her," remarked Maurice. "A pity. No, I believe I could not live with Jane."

Thomas sat down again.

"The truth of it is, Maurry, we Jettans must marry for love. There's not one of us ever married without it, whether for money or no."

"'Tis so unfashionable," objected Maurice. "One marries for convenience. One may have fifty different loves."

"What! All at once? I think you'd find that a trifle inconvenient, Maurry! Lord! just fancy fifty loves, oh, the devil! And three's enough to drive one crazed, bruise me if 'tis not."

Maurice's thin lips twitched responsively.

"Gad no! Fifty loves spread over a lifetime, and you're not bound to one of them. There's bliss, Tom, you rogue!"

Thomas shook a wise finger at him, his plump, good-humoured face solemn all at once.

"And not one of them's the true love, Maurry. For if she were, faith, she'd not be one of fifty! Now, you take my advice, lad, and wait. Damme, we'll not spoil the family record!

"A rakish youth, says the Jettan adage,

Marriage for love, and a staid old age.

"I don't know that it's true about the staid old age, though. Maybe 'tis only those who wed for love who acquire virtue. Anyway, you'll not break the second maxim, Maurry."

"Oh?" smiled Maurice. "What's to prevent me?"

Thomas had risen again. Now he slipped his arm in his brother's.

"If it comes to prevention, old sobersides, I'm game. I'll make an uproar in the church and carry off the bride. Gad, but 'twould be amusing! Carry off one's brother's bride, under his stern nose. Devil take it, Maurry, that's just what your nose is! I never thought on't before—stern, grim, old—now, steady, Tom, my boy, or you'll be laughing again with the old gentleman not yet underground!"

Maurice waited for his brother's mirth to abate.

"But, Tom, 'tis very well for you to counsel me not to wed without love! I must marry, for 'tis certain you'll not, and we must have heirs. What's to be done, I'd like to know?"

"Wait, lad, wait! You're not so old that you can't afford to hold back yet awhile."

"I'm thirty-five, Tom."

"Then you have fifteen years to run before you need settle down. Take my advice, and wait!"

The end of it was that Maurice did wait. For four years he continued to rove through Europe, amusing himself in the usual way of gentlemen of his day, but in 1729 he wrote a long letter from Paris to his brother in London, declaring himself in love, and the lady an angel of goodness, sweetness, amiability, and affection. He said much more in this vein, all of which Tom had to read, yawning and chuckling by turns. The lady was one Maria Marchant. She brought with her a fair dowry and a placid disposition. So Tom wrote off to Maurice at once, congratulating him, and bestowing his blessing on the alliance. He desired his dear old Maurry to quit travelling, and to come home to his affectionate brother Tom.

In a postscript he added that he dropped five hundred guineas at Newmarket, only to win fifteen hundred at dice the very next week, so that had it not been for his plaguey ill-luck in the matter of a small wager with Harry Besham, he would to-day be the most care-free of mortals, instead of a jaded creature, creeping about in terror of the bailiffs from hour to hour.

After that there was no more correspondence. Neither brother felt that there was anything further to be said, and they were not men to waste their time writing to one another for no urgent matter. Thomas thought very little more about Maurice's marriage. He supposed that the wedding would take place in England before many months had gone by; possibly Maurice would see fit to return at once, as he, Tom, had suggested. In the meantime, there was nothing to be done. Tom laid his brother's letter aside, and went on with his ordinary occupations.

He lived in Half-Moon Street. His house was ruled by his cook, the wife of Moggat, his valet-footman. She also ruled the hapless Moggat. Moggat retaliated by ruling his jovial master as far as he was able, so one might really say Mrs. Moggat ruled them all. As Tom was quite unaware of this fact, it troubled him not a whit.

A month after he had answered his brother's letter, Tom was disturbed one morning while he sipped his chocolate with the news that a gentleman wished to speak to him. Tom was in his bed-chamber, his round person swathed in a silken wrapper of astonishing brightness. He had not yet doffed his nightcap, and his wig lay on the dressing-table.

The lean, long Moggat crept in at the door, which he seemed hardly to open, and ahem'd directly behind his master.

Tom was in the act of swallowing his chocolate, and as he had not heard Moggat's slithering approach, the violent clearing of that worthy's throat startled him not a little, and he choked.

Tenderly solicitous, Moggat patted him on the back until the coughs and splutters had abated. Tom bounced round in his chair to face the man.

"Damn and curse it, Moggat! What d'ye mean by it? What d'ye mean by it, I say? Crawling into a room to make a noise at me just as I'm drinking! Yes, sir! Just as I'm drinking! Devil take you! D'ye hear me? Devil take you!"

Moggat listened in mournful silence. When Tom ceased for want of breath, he bowed, and continued as though there had been no interruption.

"There is a gentleman below, sir, as desires to have speech with you."

"A gentleman? Don't you know that gentlemen don't come calling at this hour, ye ninny-pated jackass? Bring me some more chocolate!"

"Yes, sir, a gentleman."

"I tell you no gentleman would disturb another at this hour! Have done now, Moggat!"

"And although I told the gentleman, sir, as how my master was not yet robed and accordingly could not see any visitors, he said it was of no consequence to him whatsoever, and he would be obliged to you to ask him upstairs at once, sir. So I—"

"Confound his impudence!" growled Tom. "What's his name?"

"The gentleman, sir, on my asking what name I was to tell you, gave me to understand that it was of no matter."

"Devil take him! Show him out, Moggat! Like as not 'tis one of these cursed bailiffs. Why, you fool, what d'ye mean by letting him in?"

Moggat sighed in patient resignation.

"If you will allow me to say so, sir, this gentleman is not a bailiff."

"Well, who is he?"

"I regret, sir, I do not know."

"You're a fool! What's this fellow like?"

"The gentleman"—Moggat laid ever so little stress on the word—"is tall, sir, and—er—slim. He is somewhat dark as regards eyes and brows, and he is dressed, if I may say so, exceedingly modishly, with a point-edged hat, and very full-skirted puce coat, laced, French fashion, with—"

Tom snatched his nightcap off and threw it at Moggat.

"Numskull! D'ye think I want a list of his clothes? Show him out, the swarthy rogue! Show him out!"

Moggat picked up the nightcap, and smoothed it sadly.

"The gentleman seems anxious to see you, sir."

"Ay! Trying to dun me, the rascal! Don't I know it! Blustering and—"

"No, sir," said Moggat firmly. "I could not truthfully say that the gentleman blustered. Indeed, sir, if I may say so, I think him a singularly quiet, cool gentleman. Very soft-spoken, sir—oh, very soft-spoken!"

"Take him away!" shouted Tom. "I tell you I'll not be pestered at this hour! I might be asleep, damme! Tell the fellow to come again at a godly time—not at dawn! Now, don't try to argue, Moggat! I tell you, if it were my brother himself, I'd not see him!"

Moggat bowed again.

"I will hinform the gentleman, sir."

When the door closed behind Moggat, Tom leaned back in his chair and picked up one of his letters. Not five minutes later the door creaked again. Tom turned, to find Moggat at his elbow.

"Eh? What d'ye want?"

"Hif you please, sir, the gentleman says as how he is your brother," said Moggat gently.

Tom jumped as though he had been shot.

"What? My brother? What d'ye mean? My brother?"

"Sir Maurice, sir."

Up flew Tom, catching at his wig and cramming it on his head all awry.

"Thunder an' turf! Maurry! Here, you raving wooden-pate! How dare you leave my brother downstairs? How dare you, I say?" He wrapped himself more tightly in his robe than ever, and dashed headlong out of the room, down the stairs to where Maurice awaited him.

Sir Maurice was standing by the window in the library, drumming his fingers on the sill. At his brother's tempestuous entrance he turned and bowed.

"A nice welcome you give me, Tom! 'Tell him to come again at a godly time—I'd not see him if 'twere my brother himself,' forsooth!"

Thomas hopped across the room and seized both Maurice's long, thin hands in his plump, chubby ones.

"My dear Maurry! My dear old fellow! I'd no notion 'twas you! My dolt of a lackey—but there! When did you arrive in England?"

"A week ago. I have been at the Pride."

"A week? What a plague d'ye mean by not coming to me till now, ye rogue?" As he spoke, Tom thrust Maurice into a chair, and himself sat down opposite him, beaming with pleasure.

Maurice leaned back, crossing his legs. A little smile flickered across his mouth, but his eyes were solemn as he answered.

"I had first to see my wife installed in her new home," he said.

For a moment Tom stared at him.

"Wife? Tare an' 'ouns, ye don't waste your time! Where and when did you marry the lady?"

"Three weeks ago, at Paris. Now I have come home to fulfil the last part of the Jettan adage."

"God ha' mercy!" ejaculated Thomas. "Not a staid old age, lad! Not you?"

"Something like it," nodded Maurice. "Wait till you have seen my wife!"

"Ay, I'm waiting," said Tom. "What's to do now, then? The country squire, and half a dozen children?"

The grey eyes twinkled.

"Tom, I'll thank you not to be so coarse."

"Coarse? Coarse? Gad, Maurice, what's come over you?"

"I am a married man," replied Maurice. "As such I have—er—learned to guard my tongue. My wife—"

"Maurry, couldn't ye call the lady by her name?" begged Tom. "Faith, I can't bear those two words so often, proud though ye may be of them."

Maurice flushed slightly and smiled.

"Maria, then. She is a very—sweet, delicate lady."

"Lord! I'd made up my mind you'd wed a bold, strapping wench with a saucy smile, Maurry!"

"I? Good God, no! My w—Maria is gentle, and meek, and—"

"Ay, ay, Maurry, I know!" hastily interrupted Thomas. "I must see her for myself, so don't spoil the surprise for me, there's a good fellow! Now have you breakfasted? No? Then come upstairs with me. Where's that rascal Moggat? Moggat! Moggat! Ah, there you are! Go and prepare breakfast at once, man! And bring some more chocolate to my room." He wrapped the voluminous robe about him once more, and, seizing his brother by the arm, led him forth to the staircase.

Thus it was that Maurice Jettan brought home his bride. She was a gentle lady, with a sweet disposition; she adored her handsome husband, and duly presented him with a son, Philip. When the babe was shown to him, Tom discovered that he was a true Jettan, with all their characteristics. His father confessed that he saw no resemblance either to himself or to anyone, but he was nevertheless gratified by his brother's remarks. Tom chuckled mightily and prophesied that young Philip would prove himself a Jettan in more ways than one. He hinted at a youth which should surpass his father's in brilliancy, and Maurice smiled, looking proudly down at the red, crumpled face.

"And," concluded Tom, "he'll have a papa who can advise him in all matters of fashion better than any man I know. Why, Maurice, you will show him the fashionable world! You must take care you do not stagnate here. You must not fall out of Society."

Maurice was still smiling down at his offspring.

"No. I must not fall out, Tom. The youngster will need me later on."

For five years he continued to take his place in London Society, but he found that the desire for excitement and gaiety was growing less and less within him. The death of Maria gave this desire the coup de grâce. Maurice took his small son down to the Pride as soon as he had recovered from the first shock of bereavement, and after that for some years he rarely visited London, except sometimes to see his brother or his tailor. Then he seemed to grow restless again, and started to spend more time with Tom. Bit by bit he re-entered the world he had quitted, yet never did he give himself up to it as once he had done. The Pride seemed to call him, and little Philip held his heart with both hands. Thereafter he spent his time between London and the Pride. When he felt restless, he packed his bags and flitted either to London or to Paris; when the restlessness had passed, back he came to the Pride, there to spend two or three peaceful months.

When Philip was eighteen, he took him to London. Philip was very thoroughly bored. Sir Maurice concluded that he was too young to be introduced into Society, and he sent him back to the country, thinking that in two or three years' time the lad would be only too anxious to leave it.

But the years slipped by, and Philip showed no desire to follow in his father's footsteps. He refused to go on the Grand Tour; he cared nothing for Dress or Fashionable Manners; he despised the life of Courts; he preferred to remain in the country, usurping, to a great extent, his father's position as squire. He was now some twenty-three years old, tall and handsome, but, as his father told his uncle, "an unpolished cub."

[Two]
In Which Is Presented Mistress Cleone Charteris

A while back I spoke of three gentlemen who built their homes round Little Fittledean. Of one I said but little, of the second I spoke at length and to the tune of one whole chapter. It now behoves me to mention the third gentleman, who chose his site on the outskirts of the village, some two miles from Jettan's Pride, and to the east. To reach it you must walk along the main street until the cottages grow sparse and yet more sparse, and the cobblestones and pavement cease altogether. The street turns then into a lane with trees flanking it and grass growing to the sides. A few steps further, and the moss-covered roof of Sharley House peeps above a high holly hedge which screens the place from the passer-by.

There lived Mr. Charteris, and his father and grandfather before him. Mr. Charteris was the happy possessor of a wife and a daughter. It is with the daughter that I am most concerned.

Her name was Cleone, and she was very lovely. She had thick gold curls, eyes of cornflower blue, and a pair of red lips that pouted or smiled in equal fascination. She was just eighteen, and the joy and despair of all the young men of the countryside. Particularly was she the despair of Mr. Philip Jettan.

Philip was head over ears in love with Cleone. He had been so ever since she returned from the convent where she had received a slight education. Before her departure for this convent, she and Philip, James and Jennifer Winton, had played together and quarrelled together since any of them could walk. Then Cleone went away to acquire polish, and the two boys thought very little more about her, until she returned, and then they thought of nothing else but her. The romping playfellow was gone for ever, but in her place was a Vision. Philip and James began to eye one another askance.

Delighted by the new state of affairs, Cleone queened it right royally, and played one young man against the other. But it was not long before she found herself thinking far more about Mr. Jettan than was seemly. He began to haunt her dreams, and when he came to visit the house her heart fluttered a little and showed a tendency to jump into her throat.

Cleone was stern with her heart, for there was much in Mr. Jettan that did not meet with her approval. However masterful and handsome he might be—and Philip was both—he was distressingly boorish in many ways. Before her return to Sharley House Cleone had spent a few months with her aunt, who lived in Town. Several men had made very elegant love to her and showered compliments about her golden head. She had not cared the snap of her fingers for any one of them, but their graceful homage was very gratifying. Philip's speech was direct and purposeful, and his compliments were never neat. His clothes also left much to be desired. Cleone had an eye for colour and style; she liked her cavaliers to be à la mode. Sir Matthew Trelawney, for instance, had affected the most wonderful stockings, clocked with butterflies; Frederick King wore so excellently fitting a coat that, it was said, he required three men to ease him into it. Philip's coat was made for comfort; he would have scorned the stockings of Matthew Trelawney. He even refused to buy a wig, but wore his own brown hair brushed back from his face and tied loosely at his neck with a piece of black ribbon. No powder, no curls, unpolished nails, and an unpainted face—guiltless, too, of even the smallest patch—it was, thought Cleone, enough to make one weep. Nevertheless, she did not weep, because, for one thing, it would have made her eyes red, and another, it would be of very little use. Philip must be reformed, since she—well, since she did not dislike him.

At the present time Philip had just returned from Town, whither he had been sent by his father, ostensibly to transact some business concerning the estate, but really that his unfashionable soul might succumb to the delights of Town. Philip was not aware of this secret purpose, but Cleone knew all about it. She was very fond of Sir Maurice, and he of her. When Sir Maurice saw which way Philip looked for a wife, he was pleased enough, although a Jettan might have cast his eyes much higher. But Sir Maurice, mindful of the old adage, was content to let things run their course. All that worried him was the apparent obduracy of his son in the matter of the first prophecy. He loved Philip, he did not wish to lose him, he liked his companionship, but—"By God, sir, you are a damned dull dog!"

At that young Philip's straight brows drew close over the bridge of his nose, only to relax again as he smiled.

"Well, sir, I hold two gay dogs in the family to be enough."

Sir Maurice's mouth quivered responsively.

"What's that, Philip? Do you seek to reprove me?"

"Not a whit, sir. You are you, but I—am I."

"So it seems," said his father. "And you being yourself have fallen in love with a mighty pretty child; still being yourself, you are like to be left disconsolate."

Philip had flushed slightly at the reference to Cleone. The end of the sentence left him frowning.

"What mean you, sir?"

The shrewd grey eyes, so like his own, regarded him pityingly.

"Little Mistress Cleone will have none of you an you fail to mend your ways, my son. Do you not know it? What has that dainty piece to do with a raw clodhopper like yourself?"

Philip answered low.

"If Mistress Cleone gives me her love it will be for me as I am. She is worthy a man, not a powdered, ruffled beau."

"A man! Sacré tonnerre, 'tis what you are, hein? Philip, child, get you to Town to your uncle and buy a wig."

"No, sir, I thank you. I shall do very well without a wig."

Sir Maurice drove his cane downwards at the floor in exasperation.

"Mille diables! You'll to Town as I say, defiant boy! You may finish the business with that scoundrel Jenkins while you are about it!"

Philip nodded.

"That I will do, sir, since you wish it."

"Bah!" retorted his father.

He had gone; now he had come back, the business details settled to his satisfaction, but with no wig. Sir Maurice was pleased to see him again, more pleased than he appeared, as Philip was well aware. He listened to what his son had to tell him of Tom Jettan, failed to glean any of the latest society gossip, and dismissed Philip from his presence.

Half an hour later Philip rode in at the gates of Sharley House, sitting straight in his saddle, a pulse in his throat throbbing in anticipation.

Cleone saw him coming. She was seated in the parlour window, embroidering in a languid fashion. Truth to tell, she was tired of her own company and not at all averse from seeing Philip. As he passed the window she bent forward a little, smiling down at him. Philip saw her at once; indeed, he had been eyeing every window of the warm, red house in the hope that she might be sitting in one. He reined in his horse and bowed to her, hat in hand.

Cleone opened the casement wider, leaning over the sill, her golden curls falling forward under the strings of her cap.

"Why, sir, are you back already?" she asked, dimpling.

"Already!" he echoed. "It has been years! Ten years, Cleone!"

"Pooh!" she said. "Ten days—not a moment more!"

"Is that all it has seemed to you?" he said.

Cleone's cheek became faintly tinged with pink.

"What more?" she retorted. "'Tis all it is!"

Into Philip's eyes came a gleam of triumph.

"Aha! You've counted, then! Oh, Cleone!"

The roguish look fled.

"Oh!" cried Cleone, pouting. "How—how—monstrous—"

"Monstrous what, dear Cleone?"

"Impudent!" she ended. "I declare I won't see you!" As if to add weight to this statement, she shut the casement and moved away into the room.

Presently, however, she relented, and tripped downstairs to the withdrawing-room, where she found Mr. Jettan paying his respects to her mamma. She curtseyed very demurely, allowed him to kiss the tips of her fingers, and seated herself beside Madam Charteris.

Madam patted her hand.

"Well, child, here is Philip returned from Town with not a word to tell us of his gaiety!"

Cleone raised her eyes to survey Philip.

"Mamma, there is naught to tell. Philip is such a staid, sober person."

"Tut-tut!" said her mother. "Now, Philip, tell us all! Did you not meet one beauty to whom you lost your heart?"

"No, madam," answered Philip. "The painted society dames attract me not at all." His eyes rested on Cleone as he spoke.

"I dare say you've not yet heard the news?" Cleone said, after a slight pause. "Or did Sir Maurice tell you?"

"No—that is, I do not know. What is it? Good news?"

"It remains to be seen," she replied. "'Tis that Mr. Bancroft is to return! What think you of that?"

Philip stiffened.

"Bancroft? Sir Harold's son?"

"Yes, Henry Bancroft. Is it not exciting? Only think—he has been away nigh on eight years! Why, he must be—" she began to count on her rosy-tipped fingers "—twenty-six, or twenty-seven. Oh, a man! I do so wonder what he is like now!"

"H'm!" remarked Philip. His voice held no enthusiasm. "What does he want here?"

Cleone's long lashes fluttered down to hide the laugh in her eyes.

"To see his papa, of course. After so many years!"

Philip gave vent to a sound very like a snort.

"I'll wager there's a more potent reason! Else had he come home ere now."

"Well, I will tell you. Papa rode over to Great Fittledean two days ago, and he found Sir Harold mightily amused, did he not, Mamma?"

Madam Charteris assented vaguely. She was stitching at a length of satin, content to drop out of the conversation.

"Yes. It seems that Henry—"

"Who?" Philip straightened in his chair.

"Mr. Bancroft," said Cleone. A smile trembled on her lips. "It seems that Mr. Bancroft has had occasion to fight a duel. Is it not too dreadful?"

Philip agreed with more heartiness than he had yet shown.

"I am sure I do not know why gentlemen must fight. 'Tis very terrible, I think. But, of course, 'tis monstrous gallant and exciting. And poor Mr. Bancroft has been advised to leave London for a while, because some great personage is angered. Papa did not say who was the gentleman he fought, but Sir Harold was vastly amused." She glanced up at Philip, in time to catch sight of the scornful frown on his face. "Oh, Philip, do you know? Have you perhaps heard?"

"No one who has been in Town this last week could fail to have heard," said Philip shortly. Then, very abruptly, he changed the subject.

When Philip came back to the Pride it was close on the dinner hour. He walked slowly upstairs to change his clothes, for on that point Sir Maurice was obdurate. He would not allow buckskins or riding-boots at his table. He himself was fastidious to a fault. Every evening he donned stiff satins and velvets; his thin face was painted, powdered and patched; his wig tied with great precision in the nape of his neck. He walked now with a stick, but his carriage was still fairly upright. The stick was, as Philip told him, a mere affectation.

Philip was rather silent during the first part of the meal, but when the lackeys left the room, and Sir Maurice pushed the port towards him, he spoke suddenly, as if the words had hovered on his tongue for some time.

"Father, do you hear that Bancroft is to return?"

Sir Maurice selected a nut from the dish before him, cracking it between his long, white fingers.

"I believe someone told me. What of it?"

"You said nothing of it to me."

The grey eyes lifted.

"Is he a friend of yours? I did not know."

"A friend!" Philip set his glass down with a snap. "Hardly, sir!"

"Now what's to do?" asked his father. "Why the scorn?"

"Sir, if you could but hear the gossip about him!"

"I have no doubt I should be vastly entertained," said Sir Maurice. "What's the tale?"

"The fellow is for ever embroiling himself in some low quarrel. This time it is Lady Marchand. Faugh!"

"Lady Marchand? Not Dolly Marchand?"

"I believe so. Why, sir, do you know her?"

"I—er—knew her mother. Tell me, is she as charming?"

"As I know neither her mother, nor Lady Marchand—"

Sir Maurice sighed.

"No. Of course not. Go on."

"It's a damned sordid tale, sir, and I'll spare you the details. Lord Marchand and Bancroft fought out at Ipswich. Bancroft wounded him in the lung, and 'tis said he'll not recover."

"Clumsy," remarked Sir Maurice. "So Bancroft retires?"

"The Prince of Wales is furious, as well he might be. And Bancroft brings himself and his morals here."

A faint smile hovered on Sir Maurice's lips.

"And Mr. Jettan is righteously indignant. From which I gather that Mistress Cleone is prepared to welcome this slayer of hearts. You'd best have bought a wig, Philip."

In spite of himself, Philip laughed.

"Sir, you are incorrigible!"

"Faute de mieux. And whence, if I may ask, did you glean all this—sordid information, oh my righteous son?"

"From Tom, of course. He could talk of nothing else."

"Alack! The saint is still upon his pedestal. In fact, the story was forced upon you. Philip, you enrage me." He looked up and met his son's amused glance. "Yes, child, I am enraged. Pass the wine."

Philip pushed the decanter towards him. His rather stern eyes were twinkling.

"I'll swear no one ever before possessed so outrageous a sire," he said. "I've heard of some who disinherited their sons for disreputable behaviour, but it seems you are like to disinherit me for irreproachable conduct."

"It's a piquante situation," agreed Sir Maurice. "But I shan't disinherit you."

"No?"

"Where's the use? With no money you could not hope to—ah—follow in my footsteps. I've a mind to turn you out of the house, though."

"Half a mind," corrected Philip. "The other half, sir, rejoices in my unblemished reputation."

"Does it?" Sir Maurice was mildly interested. "Faith, I did not know that."

"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.

[Three]
Mr. Bancroft Brings Trouble into Little Fittledean

On a particularly sunny morning, some five or six days after Mr. Jettan's return from London town, the main street of Little Fittledean was made brighter still by the passage of an Apparition.

The Apparition wore a coat of palest apricot cloth, with a flowered vest of fine brocade, and startling white small-clothes. Red-heeled shoes were on his feet, and his stockings were adorned by sprawling golden clocks. He carried an amber-clouded cane and a jewelled snuff-box, while ever and anon he raised a cobwebby handkerchief to his aristocratic nose. He minced down the street towards the market-place, followed by the awe-stricken glances of an amazed population. The inhabitants of the village had never seen anything so wonderful or so remarkable as this gorgeous gentleman. They watched the high red heels click along the road, and admired the beautiful set of the Apparition's coat. A group of children stopped playing to stare, open-mouthed. The Apparition heeded them not. It may have been that he was oblivious of their existence. Not even when a piping treble requested "John" to "look'ee now at them shoes!" did he show that he realised the presence of anyone but himself in the village. He minced on, very languid, and suitably bored.

Further down the street a gentleman had reined in his horse to speak to a curtseying dame, who plucked shyly at her apron, smiling up at him. Presently he, too, became aware of the sound of clicking heels. Even as the buxom dame gazed past him with wide eyes, he looked up and saw the Apparition.

I would not have you think that the Apparition noticed him. On he went, swinging his cane and yawning.

Sir Maurice turned in his saddle the better to see those pearly small-clothes. His horse cocked both ears inquiringly and blew down his nostrils.

"Well, I'm damned!" said Sir Maurice beneath his breath. "Puppy!"

Mr. Bancroft proceeded leisurely towards the market-place. He was very, very bored, and he had walked over from Great Fittledean in search of possible amusement. He almost despaired of finding it, but Fate favoured him.

Crossing the market-place, a basket on her arm and a very becoming hat tied over her curls, was Mistress Cleone. She was tripping along quite unconcernedly, her cheeks just tinged with colour, and her big eyes bluer than ever. Mr. Bancroft lost a little of his languor. It might almost be said that his eye brightened.

Cleone was coming towards him, and it was markedly evident that Mr. Bancroft made no attempt to step aside. On the contrary, he appeared to be engrossed in the contemplation of a cat right away on his left. Cleone was peeping inside her basket; she did not perceive Mr. Bancroft until she had walked into him. Then she gave a startled cry, fell back, and stared.

Mr. Bancroft was profuse in his apologies. He swept off his hat and made her a low bow, sinking back and back on his bent left leg.

"Oh!" gasped Cleone, becomingly flustered. "Gracious! Is it you, Mr. Bancroft?"

Mr. Bancroft said that it was. He was very modest about it, and he dubbed himself a clodhopping oaf so to have discommoded Cleone.

Cleone dimpled, curtseyed, and prepared to go on her way. This, however, Mr. Bancroft would not allow. He insisted on taking her basket, which, he protested, was monstrous heavy for her fair hands to support.

Cleone looked up at him provocatively.

"Sir, I fear I am a stranger to you!"

"A stranger! Why, madam, is it likely that once I had seen I could ever forget your sweet face?" cried Mr. Bancroft. "Those blue eyes, madam, left a deep imprint on my soul; those soft lips—"

"But," interrupted Cleone, blushing, "my name escaped your memory. Confess, Mr. Bancroft, it is indeed so?"

Mr. Bancroft waved his handkerchief with a superb gesture.

"A name—bah! What is it? 'Tis the face that remains with me. Names do, indeed, escape me. How could a mere name conjure up this fair image?" He bowed slightly. "Your name should be Venus, madam."

"Sir!" Cleone was shocked. "I am Cleone Charteris, Mr. Bancroft," she said primly.

Mr. Bancroft was quite equal to the occasion.

"My dear," he said fondly, "do you think I did not know it?"

Cleone shook her head.

"You did not know it. And, indeed, I am prodigiously hurt and offended that you should have forgot me."

"Forgot you?" Mr. Bancroft was derisive. "Forget the little nymph who so tormented me in my youth? Fie on you, madam!"

"Oh, I did not! How can you say so, sir? 'Twas you who were always so provoking! Do you remember how we played? You and Jennifer and I and Philip—oh, and James."

"The games I remember," he answered. "But Jennifer, no. And who are Philip and James?"

"You've a monstrous short memory," reproved Cleone. "Of course you remember Philip Jettan?"

"How could I hope to remember anyone but your fair self?" he protested. "Could I be sensible of another's presence when you were there?"

Cleone giggled. She found Mr. Bancroft's compliments very entertaining and novel.

"You are quite ridiculous, sir. And this is my home."

"Alas!" sighed Mr. Bancroft. "I would it were a mile away." He opened the gate and held it for her, bowing. "May I pay my respects to Madam Charteris?" he begged.

"If you please, sir," said Cleone, eyes cast down.

They found madam in the hall, speaking to one of the servants. When she saw the resplendent Mr. Bancroft she gasped, and fell back a pace.

Bancroft stepped forward, hat in hand.

"I dare not hope for recognition, madam," he bowed. "Henry Bancroft begs you will allow him to kiss your hand."

Madam Charteris extended it weakly.

"Henry Bancroft? Gracious heaven, is it indeed you?"

Bancroft kissed the tips of her fingers, holding them lightly to his mouth with two fingers and a thumb.

"I met Mistress Cleone in the market-place," he told her. "Conceive my surprise, madam, my joyful ecstasy!"

"Indeed!" stammered madam. "In the market-place—to be sure."

"Mr. Bancroft was so kind as to relieve me of my basket," explained her daughter. "He pretends that he had not forgot me, Mamma! But he cannot deceive me."

"He never sought to deceive you, Mistress Cleone. He spoke sooth when he said your image had remained with him throughout."

"Take him into the garden, Cleone," begged madam. "He will wish to see your papa."

It had not occurred to Mr. Bancroft, but he swallowed it with a good grace.

"Will you conduct me thither, Mistress Cleone?" He bowed, one arm extended.

Cleone laid the tips of her fingers on the arm.

"Certainly, sir. We shall find Papa among the roses." They walked to the door.

"The roses!" sighed Mr. Bancroft. "A fit setting for your beauty, dear Cleone."

Cleone gave a little gurgle of laughter.

"'Tis Papa's beauty they frame, sir, not mine," she replied.

Twenty minutes later Sir Maurice walked into the rose-garden to find Bancroft and Cleone seated in an arbour engaged in close converse, while Mr. Charteris nipped off the dead flowers nearby.

Mr. Charteris welcomed his visitor with a wave of his large scissors.

"Good day, Sir Maurice! What a very pleasant, warm day it is, to be sure! Did you ride over to see us?"

Sir Maurice drew him apart.

"I met that—that rainbow in the village. What a plague is it? What does he do here?"

Mr. Charteris' chubby countenance was wreathed in a great, sly smile, suspiciously like a grin.

"Have you ever seen aught to equal it?" he chuckled. "'Tis young Bancroft—in seclusion."

"I guessed as much. In seclusion, is he? Puppy!"

Mr. Charteris held up his hands.

"Oh, but Sir Maurice! A mighty soft-spoken youth—a polished gentleman, I assure you."

"Polished coxcomb!" snapped Sir Maurice. "Confound his impudence!" He turned and walked towards the arbour.

Cleone rose and came forward.

"Why, Sir Maurice! I did not see you!"

Sir Maurice raised both her hands to his lips.

"You were otherwise engaged, my dear. Will you present your cavalier?"

Cleone frowned upon him.

"Sir Maurice—! This is Mr. Bancroft, sir. Mr. Bancroft, Sir Maurice Jettan."

Mr. Bancroft's hat swept the ground. His powdered head was bent.

"I am delighted to renew my acquaintance with you, sir."

Sir Maurice inclined his head.

"I hear you intend to honour Fittledean for some few weeks?" he said. An inward laugh seemed to shake him. "You must meet my son, Philip."

"Nothing could give me more pleasure," Bancroft assured him. "I shall hope to do so at once. I am transported to meet such old friends, and to find that one"—he bowed to Cleone—"had not forgot me."

"H'm!" said Sir Maurice cryptically. Suddenly he smiled upon the younger man. "I have ridden over to beg Mr. Charteris to honour me at dinner on Wednesday—"

"Delighted, delighted!" nodded Charteris, who had joined them.

"—with madam and Cleone. You'll come, my dear? I have already spoken to your mamma."

Cleone slipped her hand in his arm.

"Why, it's very kind of you, Sir Maurice. Thank you very much."

He patted the little hand. Then he again transferred his attention to Mr. Bancroft.

"I trust you too will honour us, sir?"

"It is prodigious amiable of you, sir. I hasten to accept. On Wednesday, I think you said? With all the pleasure on earth!"

"Cleone, my dear, give me your arm as far as that rose-bush. You shall choose me a button-hole, if you will. No, no, Charteris, with her own fair fingers!" He bore Cleone away to the other end of the garden, leaving Mr. Bancroft disconsolate. When they were out of hearing Sir Maurice looked down into the roguish blue eyes. "My dear, you are a minx."

Cleone dimpled charmingly.

"I don't know why you should say so, sir."

"Of course not," agreed Sir Maurice. "Now what is the game? It's to make Philip jealous, eh?"

"Sir! How can you?"

"My love, I know all about you, for I am an old man. Make Philip jealous by all means."

"I'm sure I never—"

"Of course not. But I think, with you, that it would be a very good plan. The boy is too stolid and cock-sure."

"Cock—Oh, indeed!"

"So if you shake Philip up from his toes to his head—you'll earn a father's blessing."

Cleone controlled a trembling lip.

"Sir—you are—a very naughty—conspirator."

"We'll leave it at that," said Sir Maurice. "Now choose me a rose, little witch. Gad, if I were ten years younger I'd make Philip jealous myself!"

Cleone tip-toed, her hands on his shoulders.

"You are very, very wicked," she told him gravely.

Sir Maurice kissed her.

"So are you, minx, and I want you for my daughter. We are so well suited."

Cleone blushed fiery red and hid her face in his coat.

Sir Maurice rode home wrapped in thought. Now and again he chuckled softly to himself, but when later he met his son he was as solemn as ever.

Philip came into the library, riding-whip in hand. He had been on the fields all the morning, and Sir Maurice eyed his boots with disfavour. Philip sank into a chair.

"Two of the big meadows are cut, sir. We should finish by next week." He glanced anxiously out of the window. "I hope the rain holds off."

"Oh, it will," replied his father placidly.

"I am not so sure. Last summer the hay was black. Did you—er—did you ride into the village?"

"I did."

"And—and did you go to—Sharley House?"

"Ay."

"Are they—did they accept?" Philip played with his whip, feigning unconcern.

"They did. I met that fellow Bancroft."

"Oh!" said Philip. "Where?"

"In the rose-garden," yawned Sir Maurice.

The whip fell to the ground.

"What? In the rose-garden? Whose rose-garden?"

"At Sharley House, of course."

"Where—was—What was he doing there?"

"He was sitting in the arbour, talking to Cleone."

"Confound him!" growled Philip, as if his worst fears were realised. "What's he like?"

Sir Maurice glanced across at him.

"He is about your height—perhaps a little taller. He—ah—seems to have a soft tongue and an engaging manner."

"Oh, has he?" Philip's voice was startlingly grim.

"He and Cleone were renewing their old friendship."

"Oh, were they? What old friendship? He was never our friend!"

"No, I suppose not," said Sir Maurice innocently. "He is some six or seven years older than you, is he not?"

"Five!" said Philip emphatically.

"Only five? Of course, he looks and seems older, but he has seen more of the world, which accounts for it."

To this Philip vouchsafed no answer at all, but he looked at his father with some suspicion. Sir Maurice allowed two or three minutes to elapse before he spoke again.

"By the way, Philip, Bancroft dines with us on Wednesday."

Up sprang Philip in great annoyance.

"What's that, sir? Dines here, and on Wednesday? Surely you did not invite the fellow?"

"But I did," answered Sir Maurice blandly. "Why not?"

"Why not? What do we want with him?"

"It remains to be seen." Sir Maurice hid a smile. "Bancroft is most desirous of meeting you."

Philip made a sound betwixt a grunt and a snort.

"More like he wishes to pursue his acquaintance with Cl—Mistress Cleone," he retorted.

"Well, she's a pretty piece," said his father.

Philip glared at him.

"If I find him annoying Cleone with his damned officious attentions, I'll—I'll—"

"Oh, I do not think she is annoyed," replied Sir Maurice.

At that Philip stalked out of the room, leaving his father a prey to indecent mirth.

[Four]
The Trouble Comes to a Head

At half-past five on Wednesday Mr. Henry Bancroft was ushered into the withdrawing-room at the Pride. He was, as he had intended he should be, the last to arrive.

Sir Maurice stood in front of the empty grate, talking to Mr. Charteris; madam sat on a couch, her daughter beside her, and Philip nearby. They all looked up as Mr. Bancroft was announced, and Philip rose, for the first time in his life acutely conscious of an ill-fitting coat and unpowdered hair.

Mr. Bancroft was a dream of lilac and rose. He might have been dressed for a ball, thought Cleone. Diamonds and rubies flashed from his buckles, and from his cravat; a diamond clasp was above the riband that tied his wig. He minced forward daintily and bowed, one be-ringed hand over his heart.

Sir Maurice came forward, very stately in black with touches of purple.

"Ah, Mr. Bancroft! I need not present you to the ladies, I know." He paused to allow Bancroft to throw a languishing glance towards the couch. "I think you and my son are not altogether unknown to one another?"

Bancroft turned on his heel to face Philip. He bowed again, slightly flourishing his handkerchief.

"My playmate of long ago," he murmured. "Your very obedient, Mr. Jettan."

Philip returned the bow awkwardly.

"I am very pleased to meet you again, sir," he said, determined to be polite to this most obnoxious guest. "Do you—er—intend to make a long stay?"

Bancroft raised his shoulders and spread out his hands.

"I had thought not, sir, but now"—another glance was cast at Cleone—"I think—perhaps—!" He smiled, running quick, appraising eyes over Philip's person. "Do you know, sir, I swear I'd not have known you. You have grown prodigiously."

Cleone broke into the conversation.

"You were so much older than Philip or James or me, Mr. Bancroft!"

Instantly he swept round.

"I thank you for the past tense, Mistress Cleone! At least, I am no longer so aged."

"Why, sir, have you lost your years?" she asked.

"In your company, yes, madam. Can you wonder?"

"Oh, I am monstrous flattered, sir!" Cleone spread out her fan and held it before her face.

"Not flattered, Mistress Cleone; justly appreciated."

"La!" said Madam Charteris. "How can you say such things, Mr. Bancroft? I declare you will make my daughter vain!"

"Vanity, madam, mates not with such beauty as that of your daughter," he retaliated. To the right he could see Philip, glowering, and his mischievous soul laughed. Then Sir Maurice claimed his attention, and he turned away.

Philip walked to the couch and stood behind it, resting his arm on the back. He leaned over Cleone with an air of possession.

"Pranked out mummer!" he muttered in her ear.

Cleone smiled up at him.

"Why, sir, are you at variance with him in the matter of my looks?" she asked, and thereby bereft him of speech. Her smile turned to a look of reproach. "'Tis your cue, sir; am I to be slighted?"

A dull red crept to the roots of Philip's hair. He spoke lower still.

"You know—what I think of you, Cleone. I cannot—mouth what I feel—in pretty phrases."

A strangely tender light came into her eyes.

"You might try, Philip," she said.

"What, here? Not I! I am not one to sing your charms in public." He laughed shortly. "So that is what you desire?"

The tender light died.

"No, sir. I desire you will not lean so close. You inconvenience me."

Philip straightened at once, but he still stood behind her. Bancroft met his eyes and was quick to read the challenge they held. He smiled, twirling his eyeglass.

When dinner was announced, Cleone was talking to Bancroft. It was but natural that he should offer her his arm, but to Philip it seemed a most officious, impudent action. Sir Maurice led Madam Charteris into the dining-room; Mr. Charteris and Philip brought up the rear.

From Philip's point of view the meal was not a success. Seated side by side, Cleone and Bancroft exchanged a flood of conversation. Philip, at the foot of the table, had on his right Mr. Bancroft, and on his left Mr. Charteris. To the latter he made grave conversation. Occasionally Bancroft dragged him into a discussion; once or twice Madam Charteris and Sir Maurice appealed to him. But Cleone seemed unaware of his existence. She was very gay, too; her eyes sparkled and shone, her cheeks were faintly flushed. She answered Mr. Bancroft's sallies with delightful little laughs and applause.

As the dinner proceeded, Philip was made to feel more than ever his own shortcomings. When he looked at Mr. Bancroft's white hands with their highly polished nails, and many rings, he compared them with his strong brown ones, tanned and—coarse? Covertly he inspected them; no, they were better hands than that nincompoop's, but his nails ... bah! only fops such as this puppy polished their nails!...

The lilac satin of Mr. Bancroft's coat shimmered in the light of the candles. How tightly it fitted him across the shoulders! How heavily it was laced, and how full were its skirts! A coat for a drawing-room! Unconsciously Philip squared his shoulders. All that foaming lace ... more suited to a woman than to a man. The quizzing-glass ... abominable affectation! The jewels ... flaunting them in the country! Patched and painted, mincing, prattling puppy-dog! How could Cleone bear him so near, with his fat, soft hands, and his person reeking of some sickly scent?...

Now he was talking of town and its allure, toying with the names of first one celebrity and then another. And Cleone drinking in the silly, smug talk!... Now hints at conquests made—veiled allusions to his own charms. Ape!—truckling, overdressed ape! Suddenly Philip wanted to throw his glass at Bancroft. He choked down the mad impulse, and strove to listen to Mr. Charteris.

Back in the withdrawing-room again it was worse. Sir Maurice asked Cleone to sing, and she went to the spinet. Bancroft followed, to choose her music, to turn the pages, to gaze at her in frank admiration. Damn him, damn him, damn him!

The party came to an end at last; Philip was alone with his father. Sir Maurice leaned his chin in his hand, watching him amusedly. For a long while Philip said nothing, but presently he brought his eyes away from the window and looked at his father.

"And that," he said bitingly, "is what you would have me. A conceited, painted puppy, fawning and leering on every woman that crosses his path!"

"Not at all." Sir Maurice took out his snuff-box and opened it. "'Tis the last thing in the world I would have you."

"You said—"

"I said I would have you a very perfect gentleman, knowing the world and its ways."

"Well?—"

"You perhaps conceive Mr. Bancroft a perfect gentleman?"

"Not I! 'Tis you who—"

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.

The grey eyes met his, a trifle hurt.

"I am selfish, Father? Because I will not become the thing I despise?"

"And narrow, Philip, to despise what you do not know."

"Thank you!" The young voice was exceedingly bitter. "I am to be a painted popinjay! I tell you, sir, Cleone must take me as I am."

"Or leave you as you are," said Sir Maurice gently.

"A warning, sir?"

"That's for you to judge, child. And now I'll to bed." He paused, looking at his son.

Philip went to him.

"Good night, sir."

Sir Maurice smiled, holding out his hand.

"Good night, my son."

Philip kissed his fingers.

Followed a week of disturbing trivialities. Mr. Bancroft was more often in Little Fittledean than at home, and most often at Sharley House. He there met Philip, not once, but many times, hostile and possessive. He laughed softly, and sought to engage Philip in a war of wits, but Philip's tongue was stiff and reluctant. So Mr. Bancroft made covert sport of him and renewed his attentions to Cleone.

Cleone herself was living in a strange whirl. There was much in Mr. Bancroft that displeased her; I do not think she ever had it in her mind to wed him, which was perhaps fortunate, as Mr. Bancroft certainly had it not in his. But homage is grateful to women, and ardent yet dainty love-making fascinating to the young. She played with Mr. Bancroft, but thought no less of Philip. Yet Philip contrived to irritate her. His air of ownership, his angry, reproachful looks, fired the spirit of coquetry within her. Mastery thrilled her, but a mastery that offered to take all, giving nothing, annoyed her. That Philip loved her to distraction, she knew; also she knew that Philip would expect her to bend before his will. He would not change, it would be she who must conform to his pleasure. Philip was determined to remain as he was, faithful but dull. She wanted all that he despised: life, gaiety, society, and frivolity. She weighed the question carefully, a little too carefully for a maid in love. She wanted Philip and she did not want him. As he was, she would have none of him; as she wished him to be, he might have her. But for the present she was no man's, and no man had the right to chide her. Philip had made a mistake in his wooing in showing her how much his own he thought her. All unwitting, he was paving the way to his own downfall.

Despite the lisping conceit of Mr. Bancroft, his polished phrases and his elegancy when compared with Philip's brusqueness threw Philip in the shade. Mr. Bancroft could taunt and gibe at Philip, sure of triumph; Philip tied his tongue in knots and relapsed into silence, leaving Mr. Bancroft to shine in his victory. The man Cleone chose to wed must be a match for all, with words or swords. Cleone continued to smile upon Mr. Bancroft.

At the end of the week the trouble came to a head. In the garden of Sharley House, before Cleone, Mr. Bancroft threw veiled taunts at Philip, and very thinly veiled sneers. He continued to hold the younger man's lack of polish up to scorn, always smiling and urbane.

Cleone recognised the gleam in Philip's eye. She was a little frightened and sought to smooth over the breach. But when she presently retired to the house, Philip arrested Mr. Bancroft, who was following.

"A word with you, sir."

Bancroft turned, brows raised, lips curled almost sneeringly.

Philip stood very straight, shoulders squared.

"You have seen fit to mock at me, sir—"

"I?" interpolated Bancroft languidly. "My dear sir!"

"—and I resent it. There is that in your manner to which I object."

Bancroft's brows rose higher.

"To—which—you—object...." he echoed softly.

"I trust I make myself clear?" snapped Philip.

Bancroft raised his eyeglass. Through it he studied Philip from his toes to his head.

"Is it possible that you want satisfaction?" he drawled.

"More than that," retorted Philip. "It is certain."

Once again he was scrutinised. Mr. Bancroft's smile grew.

"I do not fight with schoolboys," he said.

The colour flooded Philip's face.

"Perhaps because you are afraid," he said quickly, guarding his temper.

"Perhaps," nodded Bancroft. "Yet I have not the reputation of a coward."

Swift as a hawk Philip pounced.

"You have, sir, as I well know, the reputation of a libertine!"

It was Bancroft's turn to flush.

"I—beg—your—pardon?"

"It is necessary," bowed Philip, enjoying himself now for the first time in many days.

"You—impudent boy!" gasped Bancroft.

"I would sooner be that, sir, than an impudent, painted puppy."

Under his powder Bancroft was fiery red.

"I see you will have it, Mr. Jettan. I will meet you when and where you will."

Philip patted his sword-hilt, and Bancroft observed for the first time that he was wearing a sword.

"I have noticed, Mr. Bancroft, that you habitually don your sword. So I took the precaution of wearing mine. 'When' is now, and 'where' is yonder!" He pointed above the hedge that encircled the garden to the copse beyond. It was a very fine theatrical effect, and he was pleased with it.

Bancroft sneered at him.

"A trifle countrified, Mr. Jettan. Do you propose to dispense with such needless formalities as seconds?"

"I think we can trust each other," said Philip grandly.

"Then pray lead the way," bowed Bancroft.

What followed was not so fine. Bancroft was proficient in the art of the duello; Philip had never fought in his life. Fencing had never interested him, and Sir Maurice had long since despaired of teaching him anything more than the rudiments. However, he was very angry and very reckless, while Bancroft thought to play with him. He thrust so wildly and so insanely that Bancroft was taken unawares and received a fine slash across the arm. After that he fenced more carefully, and in a very short time pinked Philip neatly and artistically above the elbow of his sword arm. As Philip's blade wavered and fell, he wiped his own on his handkerchief, sheathed it, and bowed.

"Let this be a lesson to you, sir," he said, and walked away before Philip could pick up his sword.

Twenty minutes later Philip walked into the hall of Sharley House, a handkerchief tied tightly round his arm, and asked for Mistress Cleone. On being told that she was in the parlour, he stalked in upon her.

Cleone's eyes flew to his crooked arm.

"Oh!" she cried, and half rose. "What—what have you done? You are hurt!"

"It is less than nothing, I thank you," replied Philip. "I want you to answer me plainly, Cleone. What is that fellow to you?"

Cleone sat down again. Her eyes flashed; Philip was nearer than ever to his downfall.

"I entirely fail to understand you, sir," she answered.

"Do you love that—that prancing ninny?" asked Philip.

"I consider such a question an—an impertinence!" cried Cleone. "What right have you to ask me such a thing?"

Philip's brows met across the bridge of his nose.

"You do love him?"

"No, I don't! I mean—Oh, how dare you?"

Philip came closer. The frown faded.

"Cleone—do you—could you—love me?"

Cleone was silent.

Closer still came Philip, and spoke rather huskily.

"Will you—marry me, Cleone?"

Still silence, but the blue eyes were downcast.

"Cleone," blundered Philip, "you—don't want a—mincing, powdered—beau."

"I do not want a—a—raw—country-bumpkin," she said cruelly.

Philip drew himself up.

"That is what you think me, Cleone?"

Something in his voice brought tears to her eyes.

"I—no—I—oh, Philip, I could not marry you as you are!"

"No?" Philip spoke very evenly. "But if I became—your ideal—you could marry me?"

"I—oh, you should not—ask such questions!"

"As I am—you'll none of me. You do not want—an honest man's love. You want the pretty compliments of a doll. If I will learn to be—a doll—you'll wed me. Well, I will learn. You shall not be—annoyed—by an honest man's love—any longer. I will go to London—and one day I'll return. Farewell, Cleone."

"Oh—goodness—are you—going to town?" she gasped.

"Since that is your desire, yes," he answered.

She held out her hand, and when he kissed it her fingers clung for an instant.

"Come back to me, Philip," she whispered.

He bowed, still holding her hand, and then, without a word, released it, and marched out, very dignified. It was another fine tragic effect, but Cleone, when the door closed behind him, broke into an hysterical laugh. She was rather amazed, and a little apprehensive.

[Five]
In Which Philip Finds That His Uncle Is More Sympathetic Than His Father

Home went Philip, a prey to conflicting emotions. He was angry with Cleone, and hurt at what he termed her fickleness, but she was very lovely, and still wholly desirable. Never until now had he realised how necessary she was to his happiness. She would not marry him unless he reformed, learned to behave like Bancroft—that was what she meant. She did not love him as he was; she wanted polish, and frills and furbelows. Philip's lips tightened. She should have them—but he was very, very angry. Then he thought of his father, and the anger grew. What right had these two to seek to change him into something that was utterly insincere, trifling, and unmanly? His father would be rejoiced to hear that he was going "to become a gentleman." Even he had no use for Philip as he was. Well, they should have what they wanted—and then perhaps they would be sorry. In a wave of self-pity he considered how dearly he loved these two people. He wanted neither to change, he loved them for what they were; but they.... He felt very sore and ill-used. Something else there was that troubled him. He had set about the task of punishing Mr. Bancroft, and Mr. Bancroft had ended by punishing him. No pleasant thought, that. Bancroft was master not only of words but of swords; he, Philip, was master of neither. He brooded over the question, chafed and irritable. And so came home to Sir Maurice.

He found him seated on the terrace, reading Juvenal. Sir Maurice, glancing up, observed Philip's sling. He said nothing, but his eyes gleamed an instant.

Philip threw himself down upon a bench.

"Well, sir, Bancroft and I have met."

"I thought it would come," nodded his father.

"I'm no match for him. He—pinked me with some ease."

Again Sir Maurice nodded.

"Also"—Philip spoke with difficulty—"Cleone—will have none of me—as I am." He looked across at his father with some bitterness. "As you prophesied, sir, she prefers the attentions of such as Bancroft."

"And so—?"

Philip was silent.

"And so Mr. Jettan withdraws from the lists. Very fine," added Sir Maurice.

"Have I said so, sir?" Philip spoke sharply. "Cleone desires a beau—she shall have one! I have told her that I shall not come to her until I am what—she thinks—is her desire! I will show her and you that I am not the dull-witted bumpkin you think me, fit for nothing better than"—he mimicked his father's tone—"to till the earth! I'll learn to be the painted fop you'd like to see me! Neither you nor she shall be offended longer by the sight of me as I am!"

"Now, here's a heat!" remarked Sir Maurice. "So you'll to London, boy? To your uncle?"

Philip shrugged.

"As well to him as any other. I care not."

"That's the wrong spirit for your emprise," said Sir Maurice, a laugh in his eyes. "You must enter into your venture heart and soul."

Philip flung out his arm.

"My heart's here, sir, at home!"

"It's also at Sharley House," said his father dryly, "or why do you go to London?"

"Ay, it's there! And I have the felicity of knowing that Cleone cares not one snap of her fingers for me! She trifles with me, and makes sport of me for her amusement!"

"Tra-la-la-la!" said Sir Maurice. "Then why go to London?"

"To show her that I am not the brainless oaf she thinks me!" answered Philip, and marched off.

Sir Maurice returned to Juvenal.

Not until his arm was healed did Philip set forth to London town. He parted amicably enough from his father, who gave him much advice, many introductions, and his blessing. Cleone he did not see at all, but when he had gone she went up to the Pride and held Sir Maurice's hand very tightly. She shed a few tears; also she laughed a little. As for Sir Maurice—well, he chided himself for a sentimental old fool, but with Philip's departure had come a void which could only be filled by Philip's return.

Tom was breakfasting when his nephew was announced. It was noon, but Tom had spent a strenuous night. Philip walked into the room, under the gloomy eye of Moggat, travel-stained and stiff from the saddle. He was quite unexpected, but his uncle showed no surprise at seeing him.

"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."

Tom thereupon buried himself in the mass of correspondence that lay by his plate. When he came to the end, Philip had finished his repast. Tom pushed back his chair.

"Well, Philip, what brings you here? Moggat, you rascal, away with you!"

Philip waited until the door had closed upon Moggat's reluctant back.

"I've—to learn to be—a gentleman," he said.

Tom stared at him. Then he burst out laughing.

"God ha' mercy, Philip, has it come to that?"

"I do not take your meaning," said Philip crossly.

"What! It's not a petticoat?"

"Tom, I'll thank you to—to—be quiet!"

Tom choked his laughter.

"Oh, I'm dumb! How do you propose to set about the task?"

"'Tis what I want to know, Tom."

"And I'm to teach you?"

Philip hesitated.

"Is it perhaps—a thing I can best learn alone?" he asked, surprisingly diffident.

"What is it exactly you want to learn?"

"To become a gentleman. Have I not said it?"

"Odd rot, what are ye now?"

Philip's lips curled.

"I have it on the best authority, Tom, that I am a clumsy, witless clodhopper."

His uncle regarded him with some kindliness.

"Little vixen," he remarked sapiently.

"I beg your pardon?" Philip was cold.

"Not at all," said Tom hastily. "So Maurice has been at you again, eh? Now, Philip, lad, come off your pinnacle and be sensible, for God's sake! What do ye want?"

"I want, or rather, they—he—wants me to learn how to dress, how to walk across a room, how to play with words, how to make love to women, how to bow, how to—"

"Oh, stop, stop!" cried Tom. "I have the whole picture! And it's no easy task, my boy. It will take you years to learn."

"Why, I trust you're pessimistic, sir," said Philip, "for I intend to acquire all these arts—within a year."

"Well, I like your spirit," acknowledged Tom. "Take some more ale, lad, and let me have the whole story."

This advice Philip saw fit to follow. In a very short time he found that he had unburdened his sore heart to an astonishingly sympathetic uncle. Tom forbore to laugh—although now and then he was seized by an inward paroxysm which he had much ado to choke down. When Philip came to the end of his recital and stared gloomily across at him, he tapped his teeth with one polished finger-nail and looked exceeding wise.

"My opinion is, Philip, that you are the best of all us Jettans, but that's neither here nor there. Now it seems to me that the folk at home don't appreciate your sterling qualities—"

"Oh, 'tis not my qualities they object to! 'Tis my lack of vice."

"Don't interrupt my peroration, lad. They think you a noble—what was the word you used?—clodhopper. 'Tis marvellously apt. They doubt your ability to shine in society. 'Tis for us to prove them to be mistaken. You must surprise them."

"I doubt I shall," said Philip, with the glimmering of a smile.

Tom was wrapped in thought; his eyes ran over his nephew's form appraisingly.

"Ye've a fine figure, and good legs. Your hands?"

Philip extended them, laughing.

"Um! a little attention, and I'd not wish to see better. Like all the Jettans, you are passable of countenance, not to say handsome."

"Am I?" Philip was startled. "I never knew that before!"

"Then ye know it now. You're the spit of your father in his young days. Gad, what days they were! Before I grew fat," he added sadly. "But I wander, I wander. Maurice and the petticoat—what's the girl's name?"

"I don't see why you should assu—"

"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.

Philip collapsed.

"Oh, very well!"

The round, good-tempered face lost its unaccustomed severity. Tom was again wrapped in thought.

"Paris," he said at length, to the bewilderment of his nephew. "You must go there," he explained.

Philip was horrified.

"What! I? To Paris? Never!"

"Then I wash my—"

"But, Tom, consider! I know so little French!"

"The more reason."

"But—but—damn it, I say I will not!"

Tom yawned.

"As ye will."

Philip became more and more unhappy.

"Why should I go to Paris?" he growled.

"You're like a surly bear," reproved Tom. "Where else would you go?"

"Can't I—surely I can learn all I want here?"

"Ay, and have all your friends nudging each other as you transform from what you are to what you are to become!"

Philip had not thought of that. He relapsed into sulky silence.

"To Paris," resumed Tom, "within the week. Luckily, you've more money than is good for you. You've no need to pinch and scrape. I'll take you, clothe you, and introduce you."

Philip brightened.

"Will you? That's devilish good of you, Tom!"

"It is," agreed Tom. "But I dare swear I'll find entertainment there." He chuckled. "And not a word to your father or to anyone. You'll vanish, and when you reappear no one will know you."

This dazzling prospect did not appear to allure Philip. He sighed heavily.

"I suppose I must do it. But—" He rose and walked to the window. "It's all that I despise and that I detest. Mere love—does not suffice. Well, we shall see." He thrust his hands deep in his pockets. "The thing they want me to be is neither noble nor estimable. They—he—they—don't care what may be a man's reputation or his character! He must speak them softly, and charm their ears with silly compliments, and their eyes with pretty silks and satins. Naught else is of consequence. Faugh!"

"Ay, you're taking it hard," nodded his uncle. "But they're all the same, lad—bless 'em!"

"I thought—this one—was different."

"More fool you," said Tom cynically.

[Six]
The Beginning of the Transformation

Philip stood in the middle of the floor, expostulating. A sleek valet was kneeling before him, coaxing his gold-clocked stockings over the knee of his small-clothes, and a middle-aged exquisite was arranging his Mechlin cravat for the seventh time, a frown crinkling his forehead, and French oaths proceeding from his tinted lips. Mr. Thomas Jettan was giving the nails of Philip's right hand a last, lingering polish. And Philip, supremely miserable, expostulated in vain.

François sat back on his heels and eyed Philip's legs adoringly.

"But of an excellence, m'sieur! So perfect a calf, m'sieur! So vairy fine a laig," he explained in English.

Philip tried to squint down at them, and was rewarded by an impatient exclamation from the gentleman who was wrestling with his cravat.

"Tais—toi, imbécile! 'Ow is it zat I shall arrange your cravat if you tweest and turn like zis? Lift your chin, Philippe!"

"Mais, monsieur, je—je—cela me donne—mal au cou."

"Il faut souffrir pour être bel," replied the Marquis severely.

"So it seems," said Philip irritably. "Tom, for God's sake, have done!"

His uncle chuckled.

"I've finished, never fear. Jean, that is wonderful!"

Le Marquis de Château-Banvau stepped back to view his handiwork.

"I am not altogether satisfied," he said musingly.

Philip warded him off.

"No, no, m'sieur! I am sure it is perfection!"

The Marquis disregarded him. Once more his nimble fingers busied themselves amongst the folds of soft lace. His eyes gleamed suddenly.

"It is well! François, the sapphire pin! Quickly!"

The valet held it out. He and Tom watched anxiously as the Marquis' hand hovered, uncertain. Philip felt that this was a supreme moment; he held his breath. Then the pin was fixed with one unerring movement, and the two onlookers drew deep breaths of relief.

The Marquis nodded.

"Yes, Tom, you are right. It is a triumph. Sit down, Philippe."

Philip sank into a chair by the dressing-table.

"What now? Have you nearly finished?"

"Now the rouge. François, haste!"

Philip tried to rebel.

"I will not be painted and powdered!"

The Marquis fixed him with a cold eye.

"Plaît—il?"

"M'sieur—I—I will not!"

"Philippe—if it were not for the love I bear your papa, I would leave you zis minute. You will do as I say, hein?"

"But, m'sieur, can I not go without paint?"

"You can not."

Philip smiled ruefully.

"Then do your worst!"

"It is not my worst, ingrat. It is my best!"

"Your best, then. I am really very grateful, sir."

The Marquis' lips twitched. He signed to François.

Under his deft hands Philip squirmed and screwed up his face. He complained that the haresfoot tickled him, and he winced when the Marquis pressed two patches on his face. When François dusted his cheeks with powder he sneezed, and when a single sapphire ear-ring was placed in his left ear he scowled and muttered direfully.

But the supreme torture was to come. He discovered that it required the united energies of the three men to coax him into his coat. When at last it was on he assured them it would split across the shoulders if he so much as moved a finger.

The Marquis found him fort amusant, but troublesome.

"Forget it, little fool!"

"Forget it?" cried Philip. "How can I forget it when it prevents my moving?"

"Quelle absurdité! The sword, Tom!"

"How can I dance in a sword?" protested Philip.

"It is de rigueur," said the Marquis.

Philip fingered the jewelled hilt.

"A pretty plaything," he said. "I have never spent so much money on fripperies before."

François arranged the full skirts of his coat about the sword, and Tom slipped rings on to Philip's fingers. A point-edged hat was put into his hand, an enamelled snuff-box, and a handkerchief.

Thomas looked at the Marquis, the Marquis nodded complacently. He led Philip to a long glass.

"Well, my friend?"

But Philip said never a word. He stared and stared again at his reflection. He could not believe that it was himself. He saw a tall, slight figure dressed in a pale blue satin coat, and white small-clothes, flowered waistcoat, and gold-clocked stockings. High red-heeled shoes, diamond-buckled, were on his feet, lace foamed over his hands and at his neck, while a white wig, marvellously curled and powdered, replaced his shorn locks. Unconsciously he drew himself up, tilting his chin a little, and shook out his handkerchief.

"Well!" The Marquis grew impatient. "You have nothing to say?"

Philip turned.

"C'est merveilleux!" he breathed.

The Marquis beamed, but he shook his head.

"In time, yes. At present, a thousand times no! C'est gauche, c'est impossible!"

Unwontedly humble, Philip begged to be made less gauche.

"It is my intention," said the Marquis. "A month or so and I shall be proud of my pupil."

"Faith, I'm proud of ye now!" cried Tom. "Why, lad, you'll be more modish than ever Maurice was!"

Philip flushed beneath his powder. A ruby on his finger caught his eye. He regarded it for a moment, frowning, then he took it off.

"Oh?" queried the Marquis. "Why?"

"I don't like it."

"You don't like it? Why not?"

"I don't know. I'll only wear sapphires and diamonds."

"By heaven, the boy's right!" exclaimed Tom. "He should be all blue!"

"In a month—two months—I shall present you at Versailles," decided the Marquis. "François, remove that abominable ruby. And now—en avant!"

And so went Philip to his first ball.

At the end of the month Tom went home to London, having set his nephew's feet on the path he was to tread. He left him in charge of M. de Château-Banvau, who had by now developed a lively interest in him.

After that first ball Philip threw off the last shreds of rebellion; he played his part well, and he became very busy. Every morning he fenced with an expert until he had acquired some skill with a small-sword; he spoke nothing but French from morn to night; he permitted the Marquis to introduce him into society; he strove to loosen his tongue, and he paid flippant court to several damsels who ogled him for his fine appearance, until his light conversation grew less forced and uncomfortable. For a while he took no interest in his tailoring, allowing Tom or François to garb him as they pleased. But one day, when François extended a pair of cream stockings to his gaze, he eyed them through his quizzing-glass for a long moment. Then he waved them aside.

François was hurt; he liked those stockings. Would not M'sieur consider them? M'sieur most emphatically would not. If François admired pink clocks on a cream ground, let him take the stockings. M'sieur would not wear them; they offended him.

Before very long "le jeune Anglais" was looked for and welcomed. Ladies liked him for his firm chin, and his palpable manliness; men liked him for his modesty and his money. He was invited to routs and bals masqués, and to card-parties and soirées. Philip began to enjoy himself; he was tasting the delights of popularity. Bit by bit he grew to expect invitations from these new acquaintances. But still M. le Marquis was dissatisfied. It was all very well, but not well enough for him.

However, it was quite well enough for Thomas, and he departed, chuckling and elated. He left Philip debating over two wigs and the arrangement of his jewels.

Hardly a fortnight later Philip made secure his position in Polite Society by fighting a duel with a jealous husband. Lest you should be shocked at this sudden depravity, I will tell you that there was little enough cause for fighting, as Philip considered the lady as he might consider an aunt. Happily she was unaware of this. Philip's friends did not hold back; he had no difficulty in finding seconds, and the affaire ended in a neat thrust which pinked the husband, and a fresh wave of popularity for Philip.

The Marquis told his pupil that he was a gay dog, and was met by a chilling stare.

"I—beg—your pardon?" said Philip stiffly.

"But what a modesty!" cried the Marquis, much amused.

"Is it conceivable that you think me attracted by the smiles of Madame de Foli-Martin?"

"But yes! Of course I think it!"

"Permit me to enlighten you," said Philip. "My affections are with a lady—at home."

"Oh, la, la!" deplored the Marquis. "A lady of the country? A simple country wench?"

"I thank God, yes," said Philip. He depressed his friend, who had hoped for better things of him. But he thought it wiser to change the subject.

"Philip, I will take you to Court."

Philip crossed one elegantly breeched leg over the other. He was, if anything, a little bored.

"Yes? Next week, perhaps? I am very much engaged until then."

The shrewd eyes twinkled.

"The manner is excellent, my friend. You will like to make your bow to the King."

Philip shrugged.

"Certainly. I trust the King will consider himself sufficiently honoured."

"Sans doute," bowed the Marquis. "But I counsel you, slayer of hearts, to cast your eyes away from la Pompadour."

"M'sieur, I have already told you—"

"Oh, yes. But you have now the name for—slaying of hearts."

Philip dropped his affectation.

"Good gad! Do you say so, sir? I?"

"It is very fashionable," said the Marquis mischievously. "You become a figure."

"But I—" He checked himself, and relapsed into languor. "They fatigue me." And he yawned.

"What! Even la Salévier?"

"The woman with the enormous wig—oh—ah! She is well enough, but passée, mon cher Marquis, passée!"

"Sangdieu, you are fastidious of a sudden! Is the little country chit so lovely?"

"Your pardon, Marquis, but I prefer to leave that lady's name out of this or any discussion."

"Or I shall have a small-sword through my heart, hein?"

Philip smiled.

"That is absurd, sir."

That night he gave a card-party. The play was high and the bottles numerous. He lost some money, won a little, and was put to bed by his valet long after dawn. He awoke later with a splitting headache, but he considered himself a man. That was in September.

[Seven]
Mr. Bancroft Comes to Paris and Is Annoyed

In February came Mr. Bancroft to Paris. Philip's departure from Little Fittledean had been closely followed by his own, for he found that Cleone no longer smiled. Also, the spice of wooing her was gone when there was no jealous lover to flout. He waited until his affaire had blown over, and then he went back to London. Now, very blasé, he came to Paris in search of new pastimes.

It was not long before he met Philip. And the manner of the meeting was delightfully sensational. Under the auspices of his friend, M. de Chambert, he attended a rout at the hotel of the Duchesse de Maugry. He was presented to one Mademoiselle de Chaucheron, a sprightly little lady, with roguish black eyes. Mr. Bancroft was content to form one of the small court she held. Several old acquaintances he met, for he was not unknown in Paris.

Conversation flourished for some time. But suddenly Mademoiselle cried out, clapping her hands:

"Le voilà, notre petit Philippe! Eh bien, petit Anglais?"

A slight gentleman in peach-coloured satin, powdered, painted, perfumed, came quickly through the group and went down on one knee before her.

"At thy most exquisite feet, my lady!"

Delighted, she gave him her hand to kiss.

"And where have you been this long while, vaurien?"

Philip kissed the tips of her fingers, one by one.

"Languishing in outer darkness, chérie."

"The darkness of the Court!" laughed the Comte de Saint-Dantin. "Philippe, I know you for a rogue and a trifler!"

Philip looked up, still holding Mademoiselle's hand.

"Someone has maligned me. Of what am I accused?"

Mademoiselle rapped his knuckles with her fan.

"Voyons! Have you finished with my hand?"

Instantly he turned back to her.

"I have lost count! Now I must begin again. One moment, Comte, I am much occupied!" Gravely he kissed each rosy finger a second time. "And one for the lovely whole. Voilà!"

"You are indeed a rogue," she told him. "For you care—not one jot!"

"If that were true I were a rogue beyond reprieve," he answered gaily.

"You don't deceive me, le petit Philippe!... So sweet, so amiable, so great a flatterer—with no heart to lose!"

"Rumour hath it that 'tis already lost," smiled De Bergeret. "Eh, Philippe?"

"Lost an hundred times," mourned Philip, "and retrieved never!"

"Oh!" Mademoiselle started back in mock-anger. "Wretch that thou art, and so fickle! Rise! I'll no more of you!"

"Alack!" Philip came to his feet, and dusted his knee with his handkerchief. "I give you thanks, mignonne, 'twas very hard."

"But you do not say! How is she, la Pompadour?" cried De Salmy.

Philip pressed a hand to his forehead.

"La Pompadour? I do not know; I have forgotten. She has blue eyes, not black."

Mademoiselle promptly hid behind her fan.

Mr. Bancroft was staring at Philip as one in a trance. At that moment Philip looked his way. The grey eyes held no recognition and passed on.

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Bancroft. '"Tis never Mr. Jettan?"

"Que lui dit-il?" asked Mademoiselle, for Bancroft had spoken in English.

Philip bowed distantly.

"M'sieur?"

"You've not forgotten me? Bancroft?"

"Ah—Mr. Bancroft! I remember. Your servant, sir." He bowed again.

"Gad, I could scarce credit mine eyes! Nom de Dieu!"

"Aha, that I understand!" said Mademoiselle relievedly. "It is one of your friends, Philippe?" She smiled upon Mr. Bancroft with more warmth, and extended her hand. "L'ami de Philippe—ah, but you should have said!"

Mr. Bancroft was not elated at being classed as Philip's friend, but he bowed over Mademoiselle's hand with a good grace.

"I had no notion of finding him here, mademoiselle. The last time we met was—in a wood."

"Tell!" besought the lady.

Philip threw out his hands.

"Ah, no, chérie! That meeting was so disastrous to my vanity!"

"Raison de plus," decided Mademoiselle. "Tell me about it!"

"Mr. Bancroft and I had some slight difference in opinion which we settled in a wood. I was very easily worsted."

"You?" cried Mademoiselle. "Impossible!"

"On the contrary, bien aimée; I was, in those days, a very sorry spectacle, was I not, sir?"

"Not so long since," said Mr. Bancroft.

"Six months," nodded Philip, and turned to speak to the Comte de Saint-Dantin.

Mademoiselle was still incredulous.

"A sorry spectacle? Philippe?"

"I scent an intrigue," said a little Vicomte. "Clothilde, make him tell!"

"Of course," she said. "Philippe!"

Philip swung neatly round to face her.

"Chère Clothilde?"

"Come here! I want you to tell me what you mean by a sorry spectacle. If you refuse—bien! I shall ask Mr. Bancroft!"

"Oh, I'll give away no man's secrets!" simpered Bancroft.

Philip raised his eyeglass. He observed Mr. Bancroft dispassionately. Then he shrugged, and turned back to Clothilde.

"Petite ange, it's a sad tale. Six months ago I lived in the country, and I was a very churlish bumpkin. Then I was made to see the folly of my ways, and now—me voici!"

"I said that I scented an intrigue," said the Vicomte tranquilly.

"But wait, wait! You in the country, Philippe? You jest!"

"On my honour, no, chérie! I came to Paris to learn the ways of Polite Society."

"Six months ago?" De Bergeret was astonished. "It is your first visit? You learned all this in so short a time?"

"I have a natural aptitude," smiled Philip. "Now are you satisfied?"

"Je n'en reviendrai jamais!" Mademoiselle spoke emphatically. "Jamais, jamais, jamais!"

"I am not at all satisfied."

Philip cocked one eyebrow at the dainty Vicomte.

"What more would you have?"

"I would know of what like she is."

"She?"

"The lady to whom your heart is lost."

"That's an hundred she's," replied Philip airily. "And they are all different!"

"I dare swear I could enlighten M. de Ravel," drawled Bancroft.

All eyes turned his way. Philip seated himself beside Mademoiselle. He was smiling faintly.

"Proceed, mon ami. Who is this lady that I have forgotten?"

"Forgotten? Oh, come now, Jettan!"

Philip played with Clothilde's fan; he was still smiling, but the bright grey eyes that met Bancroft's held a challenge.

"If it transpired, m'sieur, that I had not forgotten it is possible that I might resent any liberties you or others thought to take with that lady's name," he said softly.

There was a sudden silence. No one could mistake the menacing note in Philip's smooth voice. Saint-Dantin made haste to fill the breach.

"The little Philippe is ready to fight us all, but it cannot be permitted. We'll not plague him, for he is very devilish when he is roused, I assure you!" He laughed easily and offered Bancroft snuff.

"He is very fastidious," sneered Bancroft.

M. le Comte closed his snuff-box and stepped back. He became politely bored.

"The subject grows somewhat tedious, I think. Mademoiselle, will you dance?"

Bancroft flushed. Mademoiselle sprang up.

"I am promised to Jules!" She nodded, smiling, to De Bergeret. Together they walked away from the little group.

Saint-Dantin linked arms with Philip.

"Come with me to the card-room, Philippe. Unless you wish to lead out la Salévier?" He nodded to where an opulent beauty stood.

"It's too fatiguing," said Philip. "I'll come."

"Who is he, the ill-disposed gentleman in pink?" inquired the Comte, when they were out of earshot.

"A creature of no importance," shrugged Philip.

"So I see. Yet he contrives to arouse your anger?"

"Yes," admitted Philip. "I do not like the colour of his coat."

"You may call upon me," said Saint-Dantin at once. "I do not like anything about him. He was here before—last year. His conversation lacks finesse. He is tolerated in London, hein?"

"I don't know. I trust not."

"Hé, hé! So he interfered between you and the lady?"

Philip withdrew his arm.

"Saint-Dantin!"

"Oh, yes, yes, I know! We all know that in the background lurks—a lady! Else why your so chaste and cold demeanour?"

"Am I cold?"

"At the bottom, yes. Is it not so?"

"Certainly it is so. It's unfashionable to possess a heart."

"Oh, Philippe, thou art a rogue."

"So I have been told. Presumably because I am innocent of the slightest indiscretion. Curious. No one dubs you rogue who so fully merit the title. But I, whose reputation is spotless, am necessarily a wicked one and a deceiver. I shall write a sonnet on the subject."

"Ah, no!" begged Saint-Dantin in alarm. "Your sonnets are vile, Philippe! So let us have no more verse from you, I pray! All else you can do, but, sacré nom de Dieu, your verse—!"

"Alas!" sighed Philip, "'tis my only ambition. I shall persevere."

Saint-Dantin paused, a hand on the curtain that shut off the card-room.

"Your only ambition, Philippe?"

"For the moment," answered Philip sweetly. "All things pall on one after a time."

"Save the greatest ambition?" Saint-Dantin's eyes were purely mischievous.

"You are as inquisitive as a monkey," said Philip, and propelled him into the card-room.

"For how long has that fellow lorded it here?" asked Bancroft of his friend.

M. de Chambert flicked one great cuff with his handkerchief.

"Oh, some months! He is refreshing, is it not so? So young, so lovable."

"Lovable be damned!" said Bancroft.

De Chambert looked at him in surprise.

"You don't like our little Philippe?"

"No, I do not. Conceited young upstart!"

"Con—ah, but no! You misunderstand him! He pretends, and it is very amusing, but he is not conceited; he is just a bébé."

"Damn it, is he everyone's pet?"

"C'est le dernier cri de Paris. There are some who are jealous, naturally, but all who know him like him too much to be jealous."

"Jealous!" Bancroft snorted. "Jealous of that sprig!"

De Chambert cast him a shrewd glance.

"A word in your ear, m'sieu'! Do not speak your dislike too widely. Le petit Philippe has powerful friends. You will be frowned upon if you sneer at him."

Bancroft struggled for words.

"I'll—not conceal from you, De Chambert, that I've a grudge against your little Philippe. I punished him once before for impudence."

"Aha? I don't think you were well advised to do so again. He would have no lack of friends, and with a small-sword he is a veritable devil. It would not be wise to show your enmity, for you will meet him everywhere, and he is the ladies' darling. That says much, hein?"

"And when I saw him last," spluttered Bancroft, "he was clad in a coat I'd not give a lackey, and had as much conversation as a scarecrow!"

"Yes? I heard some talk of that. He is a marvel, our Philippe."

"Curse all marvels!" said Bancroft fervently.

[Eight]
In Which Philip Delivers Himself of a Rondeau

M. Le Comte De Saint-Dantin gave a select dinner and card-party some few weeks after the coming of Mr. Bancroft. Only his chosen intimates were invited, and amongst them was Philip. At half-past five all the guests, save one, were assembled in the library, and Saint-Dantin was comparing his chronometer with the clock on the mantelpiece.

"Now what comes to Philippe?" he inquired of no one in particular. "Where is the child?"

"He was at the ball last night," said M. de Chatelin, smoothing his ruffles. "He left early and in great haste." He raised his eyes and they were twinkling. "The pearl that hung from Mademoiselle de Marcherand's right ear inspired him and he fled."

"Fled? Why?"

"I believe, to compose a ballade in its honour."

Saint-Dantin flung up his hands.

"May the devil fly away with Philippe and his verse! I dare swear it's that that keeps him now."

Paul de Vangrisse turned his head.

"Do you speak of Philippe? I thought I heard his name?"

"But yes! Henri declares he is possessed of an inspiration for a ballade to Julie de Marcherand's pearl."

De Vangrisse came towards them, stiff silks rustling.

"Alas, it is too true. I visited him this morning and found him en déshabillé, clasping his brow. He seized on me and demanded a rhyme to some word which I have forgot. So I left him."

"Can no one convince Philippe that he is not a poet?" asked De Bergeret plaintively.

De Vangrisse shook his head.

"One may tell him that he is no swordsman, and no true cavalier; one may decry all his graces and he will laugh with one; but one may not say that he will never be a poet. He will not believe it."

"Oh, he believes it, au fond," answered Saint-Dantin. "It amuses him to pretend. Ah, here he is!"

Into the room came Philip, a vision in shades of yellow. He carried a rolled sheet of parchment, tied with an amber ribbon. He walked with a spring, and his eyes sparkled with pure merriment. He waved the parchment roll triumphantly.

Saint-Dantin went forward to greet him.

"But of a lateness, Philippe," he cried, holding out his hands.

"A thousand pardons, Louis! I was consumed of a rondeau until an hour ago."

"A rondeau?" said De Vangrisse. "This morning it was a ballade!"

"This morning? Bah! That was a year ago. Since then it has been a sonnet!"

"A Dieu ne plaise!" exclaimed Saint-Dantin devoutly.

"Of course," agreed Philip. "The theme demanded a rondeau. At three this afternoon I discovered that it was so. Did you come to see me this morning, Paul?"

"You asked me for a rhyme," De Vangrisse reminded him.

"So I did! A rhyme for tout and fou, and you gave me chou!"

"Whereupon you threw your wig at me, and I fled."

"Chou!" repeated Philip with awful scorn. "Chou!"

Gently but firmly Saint-Dantin took the parchment from him.

"You shall read it to us later," he promised. "But now you will dine."

"It goes well before meat," pleaded Philip.

He was answered by ribald protests.

"I'll not listen to your verse on an empty stomach," declared the Vicomte. "Belike I shall appreciate it when in my cups."

"You have no soul," said Philip sadly.

"But I have a stomach, petit Anglais, and it cries aloud for sustenance."

"I weep for you," said Philip. "Why do I waste my poetic gems upon you?"

Saint-Dantin took him by the elbow and led him to the door.

"Parbleu, Philippe, it's what we wish to know. You shall expound to us at dinner."

Midway through the meal the Vicomte remembered something. He nodded across the table to Philip, who was engaged in a lively and witty argument with De Bergeret.

"A propos, Philippe. Your so dear friend has been talking about you!"

"Which so dear friend?" asked Philip. "Jules, if you maintain in the face of my exposition that Jeanne de Fontenay can rival la Salévier in the matter of—"

"But attend!" insisted the Vicomte. "The Englishman—the Bancroft—peste, what a name for my tongue!"

Philip broke off in the middle of his discourse. His eyes gleamed in the candlelight.

"Bancroft? What does he say of me?"

"A great deal, if all I hear is true."

Philip set down his glass.

"Indeed! Now, what might you have heard, De Ravel?"

"It would appear that ce cher Bancroft feels no love for you, mon pauvre. If De Graune is to be believed, he resents your presence here. He says he has been deceived in you. It is all very sad."

"Yes," said Philip. He frowned. "Very sad. But what does he say?"

"He divulges your close-guarded secret," said the Vicomte solemnly.

"Oh!" Philip turned in his chair and leaned his elbows on the table. "It is possible that I shall have a word to say to M. Bancroft. Continue, Charles!"

"He speaks of a lady in 'Leetle Feeteldean' who has blue, blue eyes, and—"

"Shall we pass over her eyes?" smiled Philip.

"But certainly! Her hair—"

"And her hair? In fact, shall we pass over all her attractions?"

"He is very much in love," loudly whispered De Bergeret.

Philip flashed a smile at him.

"Very much, Jules. Proceed, Vicomte."

The Vicomte sipped his wine.

"M. Bancroft, he told of your—ah—infatuation. He described the lady—oh, fully!"

The thin lips were growing into a straight, smiling line, tightly compressed. Philip nodded.

"Allons! Allons!"

"Vicomte, does the gossip of the gaming-halls amuse you?" asked Saint-Dantin sharply.

But the Vicomte was a mischief-loving soul. He disregarded the rebuke.

"A pretty piece, he called her, but no more than a simple country wench. By name—"

"Oh, have done!" exclaimed Saint-Dantin impatiently.

"But no!" Philip waved him aside. "I am very interested in what M'sieur has to say."

"By name, Cleone. We have it from M. Bancroft that she falls in love with him for his beaux yeux and his so charming manner."

"Ah!" Philip's chin sank into his cupped palms. "Et puis?"

"It is further recorded that one M. Philippe Jettan importuned her with his clumsy attentions, so that M. Bancroft was compelled to teach this M. Philippe a sharp lesson. And when one asks, 'What of the pretty Cleone?' he shrugs his shoulders and replies, very superbly, that he wearied of her as of all others."

Saint-Dantin's crisp voice cut into the sudden silence.

"Philippe, fill your glass. Paul here tells me of a pass he conceived in his duel with Mardry last month. A—"

"I will ask Paul to show me that pass," said Philip. He leaned back in his chair and laughed softly. A moment later he had resumed his interrupted discussion with De Bergeret.

Afterwards Saint-Dantin took him aside.

"Philippe, I would not have had that happen at my table! Charles is incorrigible!"

"On the contrary, I am grateful to him," replied Philip. "I might not have heard else. Now I will shut that fellow's mouth."

"How?" asked Saint-Dantin blankly.

Philip made an imaginary pass in the air.

"Short of killing him," objected Saint-Dantin, "I don't see—"

"Kill him? Not I! I may count on you to—uphold me?"

"Of course. But what do you mean to do?"

"First I will reverse the tables. I will punish him. Then I will assure him that my friends will espouse my cause if he again mentions my lady's name in public."

Saint-Dantin nodded.

"I'll vouch for those here to-night."

"Wait! Any mention of her name will be reported to me, and I shall send François to administer a little beating. It is well."

The Comte laughed outright.

"Oh, Philippe, thou art a young hot-head! Is this Cleone of so great account?"

Philip drew himself up.

"She is the lady whom I hope one day to make my wife."

"Comment? Your wife? Ah, voyons! Cela change l'affaire! I did not know that. Stop his talk, by all means."

"It's what I am going to do," said Philip. "Scélérat!"

"With a vile taste for pink, hein? You'll call upon me?"

"If you please. And, I think, De Bergeret."

"Saint-Dantin, a wager!" called De Vangrisse. "What are you talking of so earnestly?"

"Of pink coats," answered Philip. "Oh, my rondeau! Where is it?"

"Devil take your rondeau!" cried the Vicomte. "Come and hazard a throw with me."

"A l'instant!" Philip untied the ribbon about his rondeau and spread out the parchment. "I insist that you shall listen to this product of my brain!" He mounted a chair amid derisive cheers, and bowed right and left in mock solemnity. "To the Pearl that Trembles in her Ear.

"Cette petite perle qui tremblotte

Au bout ton oreille, et qui chuchotte

Je ne sais quoi de tendre et de malin.

A l'air à la fois modeste et coquin,

Si goguenarde est elle et si dévote.

"A regarder c'est toute une gavotte