“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 fingernail 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
