“Was it only six months? It seems to belong to another life. You remember so well, mademoiselle.”
“I?” Cleone saw her mistake, and made haste to cover it. “No, sir. It is dear Sir Maurice who remembers.” Her eyes sought his face for some change of expression. But not an eyelash flickered; Mr. Jettan was still smiling.
“Now I am desolated!” he sighed. “Mademoiselle Cleone does not remember the manner of my going? But I see that it is so. She is blessed with forgetfulness.”
Cleone’s heart leaped. Was there a note of pique, of hurt, in the smooth voice?
“My memory is not of the longest either, mademoiselle, but I am sure that I am indebted to you.”
“Really? I think you must be mistaken, sir.”
“It is possible,” he bowed. “Yet I seem to recollect that ’twas you who bade me go—to learn to be a gentleman.”
Cleone laughed carelessly.
“Did I?—It is so long ago, I have forgotten. And—and here is Mr. Winton come to claim me!”
Philip glanced round quickly. Young James Winton was threading his way towards them. Philip sprang up.
“James!” He held out his hands to the puzzled youth. “You have forgotten, James? And it is, so Mademoiselle tells me, but six months since I saw you every day.”
Winton stared. Then suddenly he grasped Philip’s jewelled hand.
“Jettan—Philip! Merciful heavens, man, is it indeed you?”
“He is quite transformed, is he not?” said Cleone lightly. A little barb was piercing her heart that Philip should show such pleasure at seeing James, and merely bored affectation with her.
Philip’s gay laugh rang out.
“I shall write a sonnet in melancholy vein,” he promised. “A sonnet to ‘Friends Who Knew Me Not.’ It will be a chef-d’œuvre, and I shall send it you tied with a sprig of myrtle.”
Winton stepped back the better to observe him.
“Thunder and turf, ’tis marvellous! What’s this about a sonnet? Don’t tell me ye have turned poet!”
“In Paris they do not love my verses,” mourned Philip. “They would say, ‘No, le petit Philippe se trompe.’ But you shall see! Where are you staying?”
“With Darchit—in Jermyn Street. I came to London in my lady’s train.” He bowed to Cleone.
Philip’s eyes narrowed.
“Aha! James, you will come to a card-party that I am giving tomorrow? I am at 14 Curzon Street.”
“Thank you very much, I shall be delighted. Have you set up a house of your own?”
“Sir Humphrey Grandcourt has hired his house to me for a month or so. My ménage will amuse you. I am ruled by my valet, the redoubtable François.”
“A French valet!”
“But yes! He would allow no English servant to insult me with his boorishness, so I have his cousin for chef.” He threw a laughing glance at Cleone. “You would smile, Mademoiselle, could you but hear his so fierce denunciation of the English race.”
Cleone forced a laugh.
“I suppose he does not regard you as English, Mr. Jettan?”
“If I suggest such a thing he accuses me of mocking him. Ah, there is Miss Florence who beckons me! Mademoiselle will excuse me?” He bowed with a great flourish. “I shall hope to be allowed to wait on madame, your aunt. James, do not forget! Tomorrow at 14 Curzon Street!” He swept round on his heel and went quickly to where Mistress Florence Farmer was seated. Cleone watched him kiss the lady’s plump hand, and saw the ogling glances that Florence sent him. Desperately she sought to swallow the lump in her throat. She started to flirt with the adoring James. Out of the corner of his eye Philip watched her.
Scalding tears dropped on to Cleone’s pillow that night. Philip had returned, indifferent, blasé, even scornful! Philip who had once loved her so dearly, Philip who had once been so strong and masterful, was now a dainty, affected Court gallant. Why, why had she sent him away? And, oh, how dared he treat her with that mocking admiration? Suddenly Cleone sat up.
“I hate him!” she told the bedpost. “I hate him, and hate him, and hate him.”
Philip was smiling when François disrobed him, a smile that held much of tenderness.
“Cela marche,” decided François. “I go to have a mistress.”
XIII
Sir Maurice Comes to Town
A tall gentleman rang the bell of Mr. Thomas Jettan’s house with some vigour. The door was presently opened by the depressed Moggat.
“Where’s your master, Moggat?” demanded the visitor abruptly.
Moggat held the door wide.
“In the library, sir. Will you step inside?”
Sir Maurice swept in. He gave his cloak and hat to Moggat and walked to the library door. Moggat watched him somewhat fearfully. It was not often that Sir Maurice showed signs of perturbation.
“By the way—” Sir Maurice paused, looking back. “My baggage follows me.”
“Very good, sir.”
Sir Maurice opened the door and disappeared.
Thomas was seated at his desk, but at the sound of the opening door he turned.
“Why, Maurry!” He sprang up. “Gad, this is a surprise! How are ye, lad?” He wrung his brother’s hand.
Sir Maurice flung a sheet of paper on to the table.
“What the devil’s the meaning of that?” he demanded.
“Why the heat?” asked the surprised Thomas.
“Read that—that impertinence!” ordered Sir Maurice.
Tom picked up the paper and spread it open. At sight of the writing he smiled.
“Oh, Philip!” he remarked.
“Philip? Philip write me that letter? It’s no more Philip than—than a cock-robin!”
Tom sat down.
“Oh, yes it is!” he said. “I recognise his hand. Now don’t tramp up and down like that, Maurry! Sit down!” He glanced down the sheet and smothered a laugh.
“ ‘My very dear Papa,’ ”
he read aloud.
“ ‘I do trust that you are enjoying your Customary Good Health and that these fogs and bitter winds have not permeated so far as to Little Fittledean. As you will observe by the above written address, I have returned to this most barbarous
