“At once, dear lady! I go to procure it!”
“Oh, thank you, sir!” This was not what Cleone wanted at all. “Well, Mr. Jettan, you have not yet fled to Paris?”
Philip sat down beside her.
“No, mademoiselle, not yet. Tonight will decide whether I go or stay.” His voice was rather stern.
“Indeed? How vastly exciting!”
“Is it not! I am going to ask you a plain question, Cleone. Will you marry me?”
Cleone gasped in amazement. Unreasoning fury shook her. That Philip should dare to come to her straight from the smiles of Ann Nutley! She glanced at him. He was quite solemn. Could it be that he mocked her? She forced herself to speak lightly.
“I can hardly suppose that you are serious, sir!”
“I am in earnest, Cleone, never more so. We have played at cross-purposes long enough.”
His voice sent a thrill through her. Almost he was the Philip of Little Fittledean. Cleone forced herself to remember that he was not.
“Cross-purposes, sir? I fail to understand you!”
“Yes? Have you ever been honest with me, Cleone?”
“Have you ever been honest with me, Mr. Jettan?” she said sharply.
“Yes, Cleone. Before you sent me away I was honest with you. When I came back, no. I wished to see whether you wanted me as I was, or as I pretended to be. You foiled me. Now I am again honest with you. I say that I love you, and I want you to be my wife.”
“You say that you love me. …” Cleone tapped her fan on her knee. “Perhaps you will continue to be honest with me, sir. Am I the only one you have loved?”
“You are the only one.”
The blue eyes flashed.
“And what of the ladies of the French Court, Mr. Jettan? What of a certain duel you fought with a French husband? You can explain that, no doubt?”
Philip was silent for a moment, frowning.
“So the news of that absurd affair reached you, Cleone?”
She laughed, clenching her teeth.
“Oh, yes, sir! It reached me. A pity, was it not?”
“A great pity, Cleone, if on that gossip you judge me.”
“Ah! There was no truth in the tale?” Suppressed eagerness was in her voice.
“I will be frank with you. A certain measure of truth there was. M. de Foli-Martin thought himself injured. It was not so.”
“And why should he think so, sir?”
“Presumably because I paid court to madame, his wife.”
“Yes?” Cleone spoke gently, dangerously. “You paid court to madame. No doubt she was very lovely?”
“Very.” Philip was nettled.
“As lovely, perhaps, as Mademoiselle de Marcherand, of whom I have heard, or as Mistress Ann Nutley yonder? Or as lovely as Jennifer?”
Philip took a false step.
“Cleone, surely you are not jealous of little Jenny?” he cried.
She drew herself up.
“Jealous? What right have I to be jealous? You are nothing to me, Mr. Jettan! I confess that once I—liked you. You have changed since then. You cannot deny that you have made love to a score of beautiful women since you left home. I do not blame you for that. You are free to do as you please. What I will not support is that you should come to me with your proposal, having shown me during the time that you have spent in England that I am no more to you than Ann Nutley, or Julie de Marcherand. ‘To the Pearl that Trembles in her Ear,’ was it not? Very pretty, sir. And now I intrigue you for the moment. I cannot consider myself flattered, Mr. Jettan.”
Philip had grown pale under his paint.
“Cleone, you wrong me! It is true that I have trifled harmlessly with those ladies. It is the fashion—the fashion you bade me follow. There has never been aught serious betwixt any woman and me. That I swear!”
“You probably swore the same to M. de Foli-Martin?”
“When I had given him the satisfaction he craved, yes.”
“I suppose he believed you?”
“No.” Philip bit his lip.
“No? Then will you tell me, sir, how it is that you expect me to believe what M. de Foli-Martin—closely concerned—would not believe?”
Philip looked straight into her eyes.
“I can only give you my word, Cleone.”
Still she fought on, wishing to be defeated.
“So you have never trifled with any of these women, sir?”
Philip was silent again.
“You bring me”—Cleone’s voice trembled—“a tarnished reputation. I’ve no mind to it, sir. You have made love to a dozen other women. Perhaps you have kissed them. And—and now you offer me—your kisses! I like unspoilt wares, sir.”
Philip rose, very stiff and stern.
“I am sorry that you consider yourself insulted by my offer, Cleone.”
Her hand half flew towards him and fell again. Couldn’t he understand that she wanted him to beat down her resistance? Did he care no more than that? If only he would deny everything and master her!
“I hasten to relieve you of my obnoxious presence. Your servant, mademoiselle.” Philip bowed. He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Cleone stricken.
Her fan dropped unheeded to the ground. Philip had gone! He had not understood that she wanted to be overruled, overcome. He had gone, and he would never come back. In those few minutes he had been the Philip she loved, not the flippant gallant of the past weeks. Tears came into Cleone’s eyes. Why, why had he been so provoking? And oh, why had she let him go? She knew now beyond question that he was the only man she could ever love, or had ever loved. Now he had left her, and would go back to Paris. Nothing mattered, she did not care what became of her once she had lost Philip.
James Winton, never far away, came to her side and sat down. Cleone greeted him mechanically and proceeded to follow out her own line of dismal thought. Through a haze of misery she heard James’ voice. It sounded rather shy, and very anxious. She had not the faintest idea of what he was saying, but she felt vaguely annoyed by his persistency. Presently these words filtered through to her brain:
“Say yes, Cleone! Say yes! Oh, say yes, Cleone!”
How importunate
