Sir Maurice drew a deep breath.
“My God, I would I had been there!” he said fervently.
“Ay, ’twould have been a fine sight, I vow! But did ye ever hear the like of it? Philip and the petticoats, eh? These lads, Sir Maurice! These lads! Satterthwaite says he writes madrigals and whatnot to the ladies’ eyelashes!” Bancroft went off into a long chuckle. “And so ruffled my young hothead, who had always a way with the petticoats!”
Cleone rose and walked to the window. She opened it, cooling her hot cheeks. And there she stayed, seated on the low couch that ran under the window, until Bancroft finally took his departure.
When Sir Maurice returned from seeing his guest out of the house, he found her pale again, and very stiff.
“Ahem!” said Sir Maurice. Then, brusquely: “Pack o’ lies!”
“Do you think so?” said Cleone hopefully.
“Of course I do! The boy is but doing what I told him to do—acquiring polish and savoir faire with your sex, my dear.”
Cleone sprang up.
“You told him to—oh, how could you, sir?”
“My dear, it’s less than nothing, I dare swear. But Philip worsting Bancroft like that! Philip the pet of Society! Gad, I never hoped for this!”
“Nor I,” said Cleone bitterly. “And—and ’tis my own—f-fault—for—s-sending him away—s-so c-cruelly, but—but—oh, how dare he?”
Sir Maurice was silent.
“He—he—I thought he—” she broke off, biting her lip. After a slight pause she spoke again, with would-be lightness. “I—do you know, I think I shall go to my aunt after all?”
“Will you, my dear?” said Sir Maurice.
That evening he was moved to write to his brother, an infrequent proceeding. The outcome of that letter was a brief note from Tom, which reached Philip a week later.
“Dear Nephew—The Devil’s in it now and no Mistake. Old Satterthwaite was Present at your crazy Duel, and has writ the whole Tale to Harry Bancroft, who, curse him for an interfering old Fool, read it to your Father and Cleone. The Tale is that you and B. quarrelled over some French Minx, which may be True for all I know. In any Case, Cleone is monstrous put out, and Comes to Towne to her Aunt, old Sally Malmerstoke. Maurice writes me this and demands your Return, being Upset for the Girl’s sake, but secretly Delighted at the Story, if I read his Letter aright. Do as you please, dear Boy, but I warn you, Cleone is in the Mood for any Madness, as is the way when a Maid thinks herself slighted. And she is a Prodigious pretty Chit. My love to Château-Banvau and to Yr Self.—Tom.”
XI
Philip Astonishes His Uncle
Thomas, deep in the latest copy of the Rambler, was aroused by the sound of wheels drawing up outside the house. He rose and stretched himself, wondering who could choose such a day wherein to visit him. He strolled to the window and peered out into the foggy street. He was surprised to see, not a light town-chariot, but a large travelling coach, top-heavy with baggage, and drawn by four steaming horses. As he watched, the door of the vehicle was thrown open and a slight gentleman sprang out, not waiting for the steps to be let down. He was muffled in a many-caped overcoat of Parisian cut, and shining leather boots were on his feet. Tom was puzzled. Then, from out the coach, issued two other men, evidently servants, the one small and wiry, the other lank and cadaverous. Both seemed depressed. The man in the well-cut cloak waved his hands at them and appeared to shoot forth a number of instructions. The little man, scarcely visible beneath the bandboxes that he carried, nodded, shivered, and rounded on the lean man. Then the man in the cloak turned, and ran up the steps to Tom’s front door. A long bell-peal sounded through the house.
Tom walked to the fire and stood with his back to it. Possibly this was his friend Mainwaring come to visit him, but why did he bring so much baggage? Tom rather hoped that the unknown guest had come to his house in mistake for another’s.
But a quick tread came across the hall and the door of the library was swept open. Hat in hand, the visitor stood before Tom, bowing.
“Revered uncle, I kiss your hands!” And he proceeded to do so.
“God ha’ mercy, it’s Philip!” gasped Tom. “I never expected you for another week, lad!”
Philip tossed his hat and gloves on to the table and wriggled out of his cloak.
“I am de trop, no?”
“Never in your life!” Tom assured him. “Stand up, child, and let me look at you!” Then, as Philip clicked his heels together and faced him, laughing, his eyes widened, and his lips formed a soundless whistle. “By the Lord Harry, Philip, it’s marvellous! How could you do it in six months—!”
Philip rustled over to the fire and stooped, warming his hands.
“Fog, cold, damp! Brrh! The unspeakable climate! Tom, it is permitted that I stay with you until I find an abode?”
With difficulty his uncle withdrew his gape from Philip’s claret-coloured coat of fine cloth, laced with gold.
“Can you ask? Stay as long as you will, lad, you’re a joy to behold!”
“Merci du compliment!” smiled Philip. “You perhaps admire the mixture of claret and biscuit as I wear it?”
Tom’s eyes travelled down to the creaseless biscuit-coloured small-clothes.
“Ay. I admire everything. The boots most of all. The boots—Philip, where did you obtain them?”
Philip glanced carelessly down at his shapely leg.
“They were made for me. Me, I am not satisfied with them. I shall give them to François.”
“Give them to François?” cried his uncle. “Ye wicked boy! Where is the fellow?”
“He and Jacques are struggling with my baggage and Moggat.” He stretched out a detaining hand as Tom started forward to the door.
