Jennifer gazed up at him with wide eyes.
“Philip? Is—is it really—you?” she whispered.
“You didn’t know me? Jenny, how unkind! Surely I haven’t changed as much as that?”
“Y-you have,” she averred. “More!”
“I have not, I swear I have not! Father, go away! Let me sit here and talk to Jennifer!”
Only too glad to obey, Sir Maurice rose.
“He is very peremptory and autocratic, isn’t he, my dear?” he smiled.
Philip sank into the vacated chair.
“I—I feel I ought to call you Mr. Jettan!” said Jennifer.
“Jenny! If you dare to do such a thing I shall—I shall—”
“What will you do?”
“Write a canzonet to your big eyes!” he laughed.
Jennifer blushed, and her lips trembled into a smile.
“Will you really? I should like that, I think, Mr. Jettan.”
“It shall be ready by noon tomorrow,” said Philip at once, “if you will promise not to misname me!”
“But—”
“Jenny, I vow I have not changed so much! ’Tis only my silly clothes!”
“That’s—what Clo said when I told her she had changed.”
“Oh!” Philip shot a glance towards the unconscious Cleone. “Did she say that?”
“Yes. But I think she has changed, don’t you?”
“De tête en pieds,” said Philip slowly.
“What is that?” Jennifer looked rather alarmed.
Philip turned back to her.
“That is a foolish habit, Jenny. They say I chatter French all day. Which is very affected.”
“French? Do you talk French now? How wonderful!” breathed Jennifer. “Say something else! Please!”
“La lumière de tes beaux yeux me pénètre jusqu’au cœur.” He bowed, smiling.
“Oh! What does that mean?”
“It wouldn’t be good for you to know,” answered Philip gravely.
“Oh! but I would like to know, I think,” she said naively.
“I said that—you have very beautiful eyes.”
“Did you? How—how dreadful of you! And you won’t forget the—the can—can—what you were going to write for me, will you?”
“The canzonet. No, I think it must be a sonnet. And the flower—alas, your flower is out of season!”
“Is it? What is my flower?”
“A daisy.”
She considered this.
“I do not like daisies very much. Haven’t I another flower?”
“Yes, a snowdrop.”
“Oh, that is pretty!” She clapped her hands. “Is it too late for snowdrops?”
“I defy it to be too late!” said Philip. “You shall have them if I have to fly to the ends of the earth for them!”
Jennifer giggled.
“But you couldn’t, could you? Cleone! Cleone!”
Cleone came across the room.
“Yes, Jenny? Has Mr. Jettan been saying dreadfully flattering things to you?”
“N—yes, I think he has! And he says I must still call him Philip. And oh! he is going to write a—a sonnet to my eyes, tied with snowdrops! Mr. J—Philip, what is Cleone’s flower?”
Philip had risen. He put a chair forward for Cleone.
“Can you ask, Jenny? What but a rose?”
Cleone sat down. Her lips smiled steadily.
“A rose? Surely it’s a flaunting flower, sir?”
“Ah, mademoiselle, it must be that you have never seen a rose just bursting from the bud!”
“Oh, la! I am overcome, sir! And I have not yet thanked you for the bouquet you sent me this morning!”
Philip’s eyes travelled to the violets at her breast.
“I did not send violets,” he said mournfully.
Cleone’s eyes flashed.
“No. These”—she touched the flowers caressingly—“I have from Sir Deryk Brenderby.”
“He is very fortunate, mademoiselle. Would that I were also!”
“I think you are, sir. Mistress Ann Nutley wore your carnations yesterday the whole evening.” Cleone found that she was looking straight into his eyes. Hurriedly she looked away, but a pulse was beating in her throat. For one fleeting instant she had seen the old Philip, grave, honest, a little appealing. If only—if only—
“Mr. Jett—I mean Philip! Will you teach me to say something in French?”
“Why, of course, chérie. What would you say?”
The pulse stopped its excited beating; the blue eyes lost their wistful softness. Cleone turned to James, who stood at her elbow.
XV
Lady Malmerstoke on Husbands
“And he brought it himself, yesterday morning, tied with snowdrops. I don’t know how he got them, for they are over, are they not, Clo? But there they were, with the prettiest verse you can imagine. It said my eyes were twin pools of grey! Isn’t that beautiful?”
Cleone jerked one shoulder.
“It is not very original,” she said.
“Don’t you like it?” asked Jennifer reproachfully.
Cleone was ashamed of her flash of ill-humour.
“Yes, dear, of course I do. So Mr. Jettan brought it to you himself, did he?”
“Indeed, yes! And stayed a full hour, talking to Papa and to me. What do you think? He has begged me to be sure and dance with him on Wednesday! Is it not kind of him?”
“Very,” said Cleone dully.
“I cannot imagine why he should want them,” Jennifer prattled on. “Jamie says he is at Mistress Nutley’s feet. Is she very lovely, Clo?”
“I don’t know. Yes, I suppose she is.”
“Philip is teaching me to speak French. It is so droll, and he laughs at my accent. Can you speak French, Clo?”
“A little. No doubt he would laugh at my accent if he ever heard it.”
“Oh, I do not think so! He could not, could he? Clo, I asked if he did not think you were very beautiful, and he said—”
“Jenny, you must not ask things like that!”
“He did not mind! Truly, he did not! He just laughed—he is always laughing, Clo!—and said that there was no one who did not think so. Was not that neat?”
“Very,” said Cleone.
Jennifer drew nearer.
“Cleone, may I tell you a secret?”
A fierce pain shot through Cleone.
“A secret? What is it?” she asked quickly.
“Why, Clo, how strange you look! ’Tis only that I know James to be in love with—you!”
Cleone sank back. She started to laugh from sheer relief.
“I do not see that it is funny,” said Jennifer, hurt.
“No, no, dear! It—it is not that—I mean, of course, of course, I knew that James was—was—fond of me.”
“Did you? Oh—oh, are you going to marry him?” Jennifer’s voice squeaked with excitement.
“Jenny, you ask such dreadful questions! No, I am not.”
“But—but he loves you, Clo! Don’t you love
