“Well,” Philip slipped a ring on to his finger, “I am sorry for Jacques, but he must be patient. Soon I shall go to a house of my own.”
François’ face cleared as if by magic.
“M’sieur is kind! A house of his own. Je me rangerai bien! M’sieur contemplates a mariage, perhaps?”
Philip dropped his snuffbox.
“Que diable—?” he began, and checked himself. “Mind your own business, François!”
“Ah, pardon, m’sieur!” replied the irrepressible François. “I but thought that m’sieur had the desire to wed, that he should return to England so hurriedly!”
“Hold your tongue!” said Philip sharply. “Understand me, François, I’ll have no meddling bavardage about me either to my face or below stairs! C’est entendu?”
“But yes, m’sieur,” said François, abashed. “It is that my tongue runs away with me.”
“You’d best keep a guard over it,” answered Philip curtly.
“Yes, m’sieur!” Meekly he handed Philip his cane and handkerchief. Then, as his master still frowned, “M’sieur is still enraged?” he ventured.
Philip glanced down at him. At the sight of François’ anxious, naive expression, the frown faded, and he laughed.
“You are quite ridiculous,” he said.
François broke into responsive smiles at once.
But when Philip had rustled away to join his uncle, the little valet nodded shrewdly to himself and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
“En vérité, c’est une femme,” he remarked. “C’est ce que j’ai cru.”
XII
Philip Plays a Dangerous Game
François endured the detestable Moggat for a week. He was then rewarded for his patience by the news that Philip was shortly to move into a small house in Curzon Street, which belonged to a friend of Tom. This gentleman consented to let his house for the space of two months, as he was going abroad for that time. Philip went to inspect the prospective abode, and found it to be furnished in excellent style. He closed with its owner and went back to Half-Moon Street to break the joyful news to François. From that moment the excitable valet’s spirits soared high. He would manage the affairs of the house for M’sieur; he would find M’sieur a chef. Philip was content to waive responsibility. François sallied forth with the air of one about to conquer, to find, so he told Philip, the son of his aunt, a very fair chef and a good garçon. Philip had no idea that François possessed any relations, much less one in London. When he said this, François looked very waggish, and admitted that he himself had forgotten the existence of this cousin until the moment when M’sieur told him of the new home.
“Then, subitement, I remember, for m’sieur will require a chef is it not so?”
“Assuredly,” said Philip. “But your cousin may not wish to take service with me, in which case I shall seek an English cook.”
“An English cook? Ah, bah! Is it that I would permit m’sieur to be so ill served? No! M’sieur shall have a French chef, bien sûr. What does an Englishman know of the cuisine? Is m’sieur to be insulted by the tasteless, watery vegetables of such as the wife of Moggat? No! I go to find my cousin!”
“Very well,” said Philip.
“And then we have a household bien tenu. It is our poor Jacques who could not support an Englishman in the house.”
“I hope I am not to be excluded?” smiled Philip.
“M’sieur se moque de moi! Is it that m’sieur is English? M’sieur is tout comme un Français.” He bustled away, full of importance.
The cousin was forthcoming, a stout, good-tempered soul, who rejoiced in the name of Marie-Guillaume. François exhibited him with pride, and he was engaged. That ended all Philip’s responsibility. François gathered up the reins of government, and in a week they were installed in Curzon Street. Philip had done no more than say that he wished to enter his new abode on Thursday. On Thursday he went out to Ranelagh; when he returned to Half-Moon Street he found that his baggage had gone. He took his leave of Tom, and walked up the road and round the corner, into Curzon Street. His house was as neat as a new pin; his baggage was unpacked; François was complacent. They might have lived in the house for months; there was no disorder, no fuss, none of the slow settling down. François, Jacques and Marie-Guillaume had fitted into their respective niches in one short hour. Philip was moved to inform François that he was a treasure.
That evening he went to a ball given by the Duchess of Queensberry. And there he met Cleone, for the first time since his return to England.
The Duchess welcomed him effusively, for already Philip was a persona grata in Society, and much sought after by hostesses. Tom had lost no time in introducing him to the Fashionable World. The ladies were captivated by his French air, and ogled him shamelessly. Then men found that he was, for all his graces, singularly modest and unaffected at heart, and they extended the hand of friendship towards him. People began to look for him, and to be disappointed if he were absent.
Until now, however, Philip had seen nothing of Cleone, but on all sides he had heard of her. She was, he learned, London’s newest beauty.
She was dancing when Philip saw her first, smiling up at her partner with blue eyes that seemed bluer than ever, and lips that lay in a happy curve. Her golden hair was unpowdered and piled in curls upon the top of her head. Philip thought she was more beautiful than ever.
He stood apart, watching her. She had not seen him; she was not even thinking of him; those eyes were clear and joyous. Who was her partner? Brainless-looking fool! Simpering ninny! Ay, that was all she cared
