“Oh!” cried Cleone. “Oh, I—” She stopped helplessly. Heavens, what a position she was in! If she denied that she was betrothed to Brenderby, what could Philip think? What must he think? He had seen her in Sir Deryk’s arms; the only excuse was a betrothal. And she had accused Philip of loose behaviour! Whatever happened, he must not think her a light woman! But, oh! how could she say she was betrothed to another when she desired nothing better than to fly to him for protection? She compromised.
“I—oh, I think I am about—to faint!” she said.
Sir Deryk drew her hand through his arm.
“No, no, my love! Tell these gentlemen that it is as I say.”
Cleone looked at Philip. Was he sneering? She couldn’t bear it.
“Yes,” she said. “It is.”
Philip seemed to stiffen. He bowed again.
“Permit me to offer my felicitations,” he said, but his voice was not quite steady.
James hurried forward, furious.
“Your pardon, sir! I beg leave to contradict that statement!”
They all stared at him in amazement. Philip eyed him through his quizzing-glass.
“I—beg—your—pardon?” drawled Brenderby.
“I am betrothed to her myself!” shouted James.
Cleone’s hands flew to her cheeks.
“Oh!” she fluttered. “Oh—oh, I am going to faint!”
Brenderby’s eyes twinkled.
“Bear up a little longer, dear! Of course, I know there is no truth in what Mr. Winton says!”
“It is true!” James danced in his fury. “Cleone promised to wed me, only a little while back! You can’t deny it, Clo! You did!”
“I did not!”
“You did! You said yes! You know you did!”
Cleone leaned on the nearest thing to her for support. It chanced to be Sir Deryk, but she was past caring.
“James, you know I—never meant it!”
Suddenly Philip’s lips twitched. Brenderby was bubbling over with ill-suppressed merriment.
“My dear, this is most serious! Did you, indeed, accept Mr. Winton’s proposal?”
“Yes, but he knows I did not mean it! I—”
“Cleone, do you tell me you accepted him and—”
“Yes, she did! And I hold her to her promise!”
Cleone’s knees threatened to give way.
“James, I can’t marry you! I won’t marry you!”
“I hold you to your promise!” repeated James, almost beside himself.
“And I.” Sir Deryk passed his arm round Cleone’s waist. “I hold Cleone to the promise she has given me!”
Philip interposed.
“Probably the lady would be glad of a chair,” he suggested evenly. “James, Brenderby—let your future wife sit down!”
Sir Deryk’s shoulders shook. He led Cleone to the couch, and she sank on to it, hiding her face.
Philip swung the curtain aside.
“Permit me to withdraw. Decidedly I am de trop. Mademoiselle, messieurs!” He went out, and the curtain fell back into place.
“Oh, oh, oh!” moaned Cleone.
James bent over her.
“Come, Clo! Let me take you back to your aunt!”
Brenderby stepped to Cleone’s other side.
“Cleone needs no other escort than that of her affianced husband, sir!”
“And that is I!”
“On the contrary, it is I! Cleone, sweet, come!”
Cleone sprang up.
“It’s neither of you! Don’t—touch me! Oh, that I should be so humiliated! I will not marry you, James! You know that I never heard what you said!”
James set his chin stubbornly.
“I’ll not release you from your promise,” he said.
“And nor will I.” Sir Deryk was enjoying himself.
“You must release me, James!” cried Cleone. “I—I am going to wed—Sir Deryk!” She dissolved into tears. “Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do? How—how dreadful it is! Let me go! I hate you both!” She fled from them and was at her aunt’s side before either had time to follow her.
“Good gracious, child, what’s amiss?” exclaimed Lady Malmerstoke. “You’re as white as my wig!”
“Take me home!” begged Cleone. “I am b-betrothed to Sir Deryk and James! Oh, for heaven’s sake, take me home!”
XVII
Mistress Cleone at Her Wits’ End
Sir Maurice and his brother were sitting at breakfast next morning when Philip burst in on them. Tom jumped up and swore.
“Damn you, Philip! At this hour!”
Philip paid not the slightest heed to him. He grasped his father by the shoulder.
“Father, you must to Lady Malmerstoke’s house at once!”
Sir Maurice ate another mouthful of beef.
“Sit down, my son, and be calm. What’s to do?”
“God alone knows!” cried Philip. He sank into a chair and rejected his uncle’s offer of breakfast. “Breakfast? What have I to do with food when I’m nigh demented?”
“Drink’s the thing,” agreed Tom placidly. He pushed a tankard of ale towards his nephew. “What ails you, lad?”
“Cleone’s betrothed to Brenderby,” announced Philip wretchedly.
“No!” Tom was dumbfounded.
“And to Winton.” Philip sought to drown his troubles in the tankard.
“What!” Sir Maurice dropped his knife. “Betrothed to Brenderby and Winton? You’re raving!”
“Would to God I were!” Philip emerged from the tankard, and wiped his lips with his fathers napkin. “I asked her to marry me at the ball last night. She refused; I won’t tell you her exact words. Half an hour later I found her kissing ce scélérat Brenderby in a secluded corner!” He laughed savagely.
“You mean that Brenderby kissed her?” suggested Tom.
“No, I do not! Voyons, would he be alive now had he dared embrace Cleone against her will? She submitted—she wished it!”
“I’ll not believe that!” exclaimed Sir Maurice.
“You must believe it. She is betrothed to him. She said it herself. James was with me. He interposed, saying that she was already promised to him.”
Tom gave a chuckle.
“Faith, the child is rich in—” He caught Philips eye and subsided. “Oh, ay, ay! Go on.”
“I know no more. I deemed it time for me to withdraw.”
“The proper thing to have done,” said Tom solemnly, “was to have struck an attitude and said, ‘Not so! The girl is mine!’ ”
“What right had I? I was not amongst the favoured ones.”
“Don’t sneer, Philip,” interposed Sir Maurice. “There must be something behind all this.”
Philip turned to him.
“That’s what I hope and trust! You must go at once to Lady Malmerstoke’s!” His head sank into his hands and he gave way to a gust of laughter. “Oh, Gad! neither would give way an inch. Both held Clo to her promise!”
“Ye
