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In February came Mr. Bancroft to Paris. Philip's departure from Little Fittledean had been closely followed by his own, for he found that Cleone no longer smiled. Also, the spice of wooing her was gone when there was no jealous lover to flout. He waited until his affaire had blown over, and then he went back to London. Now, very blasé, he came to Paris in search of new pastimes.

It was not long before he met Philip. And the manner of the meeting was delightfully sensational. Under the auspices of his friend, M. de Chambert, he attended a rout at the hotel of the Duchesse de Maugry. He was presented to one Mademoiselle de Chaucheron, a sprightly little lady, with roguish black eyes. Mr. Bancroft was content to form one of the small court she held. Several old acquaintances he met, for he was not unknown in Paris.

Conversation flourished for some time. But suddenly Mademoiselle cried out, clapping her hands:

"Le voilà, notre petit Philippe! Eh bien, petit Anglais?"

A slight gentleman in peach-coloured satin, powdered, painted, perfumed, came quickly through the group and went down on one knee before her.

"At thy most exquisite feet, my lady!"

Delighted, she gave him her hand to kiss.

"And where have you been this long while, vaurien?"

Philip kissed the tips of her fingers, one by one.

"Languishing in outer darkness, chérie."

"The darkness of the Court!" laughed the Comte de Saint-Dantin. "Philippe, I know you for a rogue and a trifler!"

Philip looked up, still holding Mademoiselle's hand.

"Someone has maligned me. Of what am I accused?"

Mademoiselle rapped his knuckles with her fan.

"Voyons! Have you finished with my hand?"

Instantly he turned back to her.

"I have lost count! Now I must begin again. One moment, Comte, I am much occupied!" Gravely he kissed each rosy finger a second time. "And one for the lovely whole. Voilà!"

"You are indeed a rogue," she told him. "For you care—not one jot!"

"If that were true I were a rogue beyond reprieve," he answered gaily.

"You don't deceive me, le petit Philippe!... So sweet, so amiable, so great a flatterer—with no heart to lose!"

"Rumour hath it that 'tis already lost," smiled De Bergeret. "Eh, Philippe?"

"Lost an hundred times," mourned Philip, "and retrieved never!"

"Oh!" Mademoiselle started back in mock-anger. "Wretch that thou art, and so fickle! Rise! I'll no more of you!"

"Alack!" Philip came to his feet, and dusted his knee with his handkerchief. "I give you thanks, mignonne, 'twas very hard."

"But you do not say! How is she, la Pompadour?" cried De Salmy.

Philip pressed a hand to his forehead.

"La Pompadour? I do not know; I have forgotten. She has blue eyes, not black."

Mademoiselle promptly hid behind her fan.

Mr. Bancroft was staring at Philip as one in a trance. At that moment Philip looked his way. The grey eyes held no recognition and passed on.

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Bancroft. '"Tis never Mr. Jettan?"

"Que lui dit-il?" asked Mademoiselle, for Bancroft had spoken in English.

Philip bowed distantly.

"M'sieur?"

"You've not forgotten me? Bancroft?"

"Ah—Mr. Bancroft! I remember. Your servant, sir." He bowed again.

"Gad, I could scarce credit mine eyes! Nom de Dieu!"

"Aha, that I understand!" said Mademoiselle relievedly. "It is one of your friends, Philippe?" She smiled upon Mr. Bancroft with more warmth, and extended her hand. "L'ami de Philippe—ah, but you should have said!"

Mr. Bancroft was not elated at being classed as Philip's friend, but he bowed over Mademoiselle's hand with a good grace.

"I had no notion of finding him here, mademoiselle. The last time we met was—in a wood."

"Tell!" besought the lady.

Philip threw out his hands.

"Ah, no, chérie! That meeting was so disastrous to my vanity!"

"Raison de plus," decided Mademoiselle. "Tell me about it!"

"Mr. Bancroft and I had some slight difference in opinion which we settled in a wood. I was very easily worsted."

"You?" cried Mademoiselle. "Impossible!"

"On the contrary, bien aimée; I was, in those days, a very sorry spectacle, was I not, sir?"

"Not so long since," said Mr. Bancroft.

"Six months," nodded Philip, and turned to speak to the Comte de Saint-Dantin.

Mademoiselle was still incredulous.

"A sorry spectacle? Philippe?"

"I scent an intrigue," said a little Vicomte. "Clothilde, make him tell!"

"Of course," she said. "Philippe!"

Philip swung neatly round to face her.

"Chère Clothilde?"

"Come here! I want you to tell me what you mean by a sorry spectacle. If you refuse—bien! I shall ask Mr. Bancroft!"

"Oh, I'll give away no man's secrets!" simpered Bancroft.

Philip raised his eyeglass. He observed Mr. Bancroft dispassionately. Then he shrugged, and turned back to Clothilde.

"Petite ange, it's a sad tale. Six months ago I lived in the country, and I was a very churlish bumpkin. Then I was made to see the folly of my ways, and now—me voici!"

"I said that I scented an intrigue," said the Vicomte tranquilly.

"But wait, wait! You in the country, Philippe? You jest!"

"On my honour, no, chérie! I came to Paris to learn the ways of Polite Society."

"Six months ago?" De Bergeret was astonished. "It is your first visit? You learned all this in so short a time?"

"I have a natural aptitude," smiled Philip. "Now are you satisfied?"

"Je n'en reviendrai jamais!" Mademoiselle spoke emphatically. "Jamais, jamais, jamais!"

"I am not at all satisfied."

Philip cocked one eyebrow at the dainty Vicomte.

"What more would you have?"

"I would know of what like she is."

"She?"

"The lady to whom your heart is lost."

"That's an hundred she's," replied Philip airily. "And they are all different!"

"I dare swear I could enlighten M. de Ravel," drawled Bancroft.

All eyes turned his way. Philip seated himself beside Mademoiselle. He was smiling faintly.

"Proceed, mon ami. Who is this lady that I have forgotten?"

"Forgotten? Oh, come now, Jettan!"

Philip played with Clothilde's fan; he was still smiling, but the bright grey eyes that met Bancroft's held a challenge.

"If it transpired, m'sieur, that I had not forgotten it is possible that I might resent any liberties you or others thought to take with that lady's name," he said softly.

There was a sudden silence. No one could mistake the menacing note in Philip's smooth voice. Saint-Dantin made haste to fill the breach.

"The little Philippe is ready to fight us all, but it cannot be permitted. We'll not plague him, for he is very devilish when he is roused, I assure you!" He laughed easily and offered Bancroft snuff.

"He is very fastidious," sneered Bancroft.

M. le Comte closed his snuff-box and stepped back. He became politely bored.

"The subject grows somewhat tedious, I think. Mademoiselle, will you dance?"

Bancroft flushed. Mademoiselle sprang up.

"I am promised to Jules!" She nodded, smiling, to De Bergeret. Together they walked away from the little group.

Saint-Dantin linked arms with Philip.

"Come with me to the card-room, Philippe. Unless you wish to lead out la Salévier?" He nodded to where an opulent beauty stood.

"It's too fatiguing," said Philip. "I'll come."

"Who is he, the ill-disposed gentleman in pink?" inquired the Comte, when they were out of earshot.

"A creature of no importance," shrugged Philip.

"So I see. Yet he contrives to arouse your anger?"

"Yes," admitted Philip. "I do not like the colour of his coat."

"You may call upon me," said Saint-Dantin at once. "I do not like anything about him. He was here before—last year. His conversation lacks finesse. He is tolerated in London, hein?"

"I don't know. I trust not."

"Hé, hé! So he interfered between you and the lady?"

Philip withdrew his arm.

"Saint-Dantin!"

"Oh, yes, yes, I know! We all know that in the background lurks—a lady! Else why your so chaste and cold demeanour?"

"Am I cold?"

"At the bottom, yes. Is it not so?"

"Certainly it is so. It's unfashionable to possess a heart."

"Oh, Philippe, thou art a rogue."

"So I have been told. Presumably because I am innocent of the slightest indiscretion. Curious. No one dubs you rogue who so fully merit the title. But I, whose reputation is spotless, am necessarily a wicked one and a deceiver. I shall write a sonnet on the subject."

"Ah, no!" begged Saint-Dantin in alarm. "Your sonnets are vile, Philippe! So let us have no more verse from you, I pray! All else you can do, but, sacré nom de Dieu, your verse—!"

"Alas!" sighed Philip, "'tis my only ambition. I shall persevere."

Saint-Dantin paused, a hand on the curtain that shut off the card-room.

"Your only ambition, Philippe?"

"For the moment," answered Philip sweetly. "All things pall on one after a time."

"Save the greatest ambition?" Saint-Dantin's eyes were purely mischievous.

"You are as inquisitive as a monkey," said Philip, and propelled him into the card-room.

"For how long has that fellow lorded it here?" asked Bancroft of his friend.

M. de Chambert flicked one great cuff with his handkerchief.

"Oh, some months! He is refreshing, is it not so? So young, so lovable."

"Lovable be damned!" said Bancroft.

De Chambert looked at him in surprise.

"You don't like our little Philippe?"

"No, I do not. Conceited young upstart!"

"Con—ah, but no! You misunderstand him! He pretends, and it is very amusing, but he is not conceited; he is just a bébé."

"Damn it, is he everyone's pet?"

"C'est le dernier cri de Paris. There are some who are jealous, naturally, but all who know him like him too much to be jealous."

"Jealous!" Bancroft snorted. "Jealous of that sprig!"

De Chambert cast him a shrewd glance.

"A word in your ear, m'sieu'! Do not speak your dislike too widely. Le petit Philippe has powerful friends. You will be frowned upon if you sneer at him."

Bancroft struggled for words.

"I'll—not conceal from you, De Chambert, that I've a grudge against your little Philippe. I punished him once before for impudence."

"Aha? I don't think you were well advised to do so again. He would have no lack of friends, and with a small-sword he is a veritable devil. It would not be wise to show your enmity, for you will meet him everywhere, and he is the ladies' darling. That says much, hein?"

"And when I saw him last," spluttered Bancroft, "he was clad in a coat I'd not give a lackey, and had as much conversation as a scarecrow!"

"Yes? I heard some talk of that. He is a marvel, our Philippe."

"Curse all marvels!" said Bancroft fervently.