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Cleone sat on a stool at Sir Maurice's knee and sighed. So did Sir Maurice, and knew that they sighed for the same thing.

"Well, my dear," he said, trying to speak cheerfully, "how is your mamma?"

"The same as ever, I thank you," answered Cleone.

Sir Maurice patted her hand.

"And how is little Cleone?"

"Oh, sir, can you ask? I am very well," she said, with great sprightliness. "And you?"

Sir Maurice was more honest.

"To tell the truth, my dear, I miss that young scamp."

Cleone played with her fingers, her head bent.

"Do you, sir? He should be home again ere long. Do you—do you yet know where he is?"

"No. That does not worry me. My family does not write letters."

"Mr. Tom—has not told you, I suppose."

"No. I've not seen Tom for some time.... The boy has been away six months now. Gad, but I'd like to see him walk in at that door!"

Cleone's head sank a little lower.

"Do you think—harm could have come to him, sir?"

"No. Else had I heard. Faith, it's our own fault, Cleone, and we are grumbling!"

"I never—"

"My dear, don't pretend to me! Do you think I don't know?"

Cleone was silent.

"We sent Philip to acquire polish. Heaven knows what has happened to him! Would you care greatly if he returned—without the polish, child?"

"No!" whispered Cleone.

"Nor should I. Strange! But I should prefer it, I confess."

"Do you think—do you think he—he will be—very elegant, Sir Maurice?"

He smiled.

"I fear not, Cleone. Can you see our Philip tricked up in town clothes, apeing town ways?"

"N—no."

There was silence for a few minutes.

"Sir Maurice."

"My dear?"

"Mamma has a letter from my aunt, Lady Malmerstoke."

"So? And what does she say therein?"

"She—she wants me to go to her for the season."

Sir Maurice looked down at her.

"And you are going?"

"I don't—know. I—do not wish to leave you, sir."

"That is very kind of you, child. But I'd not have you stay for my sake."

"It's no such thing, sir. I do not want to go."

"Why, Cleone, not for the season? Think of the balls and the routs."

"I don't—care about it." It was a forlorn little voice, and Sir Maurice patted her hand again.

"Tut-tut, my love!"

Another silence.

"I do not think it is very kind in Philip to stay away from you for so long a time," said Cleone wistfully.

"You forget, dear. I sent him. He is but obeying me."

"And—and me."

Sir Maurice found nothing to say to that.

"Was I—perhaps—very wicked—to—to—do what he said—I did?"

"What was that, Cleone?"

"Th—throw away—an honest man's love for—for—oh, you know the things he said!"

"Silly young fool! You gave him his just deserts, Cleone. And you may vouch for it that he will be back here at your feet in a very short while."

Cleone glanced up through her lashes.

"Do you really think so?" she asked eagerly.

"Of course I do!" he answered stoutly.

Just then a bell clanged somewhere in the distance. Cleone jumped up and ran to the window which looked out on the avenue. She tip-toed, craning her neck to see who stood in the porch.

"Why, it is Sir Harold Bancroft!" she exclaimed.

"Plague take him, then!" said Sir Maurice, disagreeably. "I can't stand the fellow or his sprig of a son!"

Cleone blushed and continued to stand with her back to the room until footsteps sounded along the passage, and the door opened to admit the visitor.

Sir Maurice rose.

"Give ye good den, Bancroft. It's good of you to come to visit me this cold day."

Bancroft wrung the thin hand, pressing Sir Maurice's rings into his fingers. He bowed jerkily to the curtseying Cleone, and blurted forth his errand.

"'Tis a joke I must have you share! 'Twill be the death of you, I vow. You knew my son was in Paris?"

Sir Maurice put forward a chair.

"Really? No, I did not know."

"Well, he is. And"—a chuckle escaped him—"so is yours!"

"Oh!" It was a smothered exclamation from Cleone.

Sir Maurice smiled.

"I guessed as much," he said, quite untruthfully. "Have you news from Henry?"

"No, not I! But I've a letter from an old friend of mine—Satterthwaite. Do ye know him?"

Sir Maurice shook his head. Having seen his guest into a chair, he sat down on the couch, and beckoned Cleone to his side.

"No. He, too, is in Paris?"

"Ay. Now wait while I find the letter! You'll split o' laughter when you've heard me read it!" He rummaged in his capacious pockets, and drew forth two or three crumpled sheets. These he spread out, and proceeded to find the place.

"'I trust....' No, that's not it! 'We are' ... Hum, hum, hum! Ah, here we have it! Just listen to this!" He held the parchment close to his nose and began to read:

"'... Whom should I meet but your boy, Henry! I had no notion he was in Paris, or I should have sought him out, you may depend. The manner of my meeting with him was most singular, as you will agree, and it is the more interesting as the occasion affords the subject for the latest joke of Paris, nay, I may almost say scandal, though to be sure I mean not our meeting, but that which I am about to relate....' A bit involved, that," remarked Bancroft, frowning.

"Not at all," said Sir Maurice. "I understand perfectly."

"Well, it's more than I do! However: 'I came upon Moosoo de Château-Banvau the other day....'"

"Château-Banvau!"

"Eh? Do ye know him?"

"Do I know him! As I know my brother!"

"Fancy! There's a coincidence! But there's more to come! Where was I? Oh, yes—'came upon Moosoo de Château-Banvau the other day and found him in great amusement, which he offered me to share, and the which I agreed to. He propounded me the joke that we were to see, and one in which his protégé, a Mr. Philip Jettan, was the part cause of and your son, Henry, the other!' Gad, that's a fine sentence! Are ye listening to me, Jettan?"

There was no need to ask that question. Both his auditors had their whole attention fixed on him. Satisfied, he continued: "'This young Jettan is, so says the Marquis, the craze of Fashionable Paris, the ladies' darling'—do ye hear that now?—'and the maddest young scamp that you could wish for. Then the Marquis further told me that Henry was in Paris and engaged to fight a duel with this Jettan.'"

"Oh, heavens!" cried Cleone.

"Ye may well say so, my dear! Now, wait a while—the joke's against me, I confess, but I had to tell you—'The cause whereof, it is rumoured, is some lady whom both are enamoured of, some French wench, I think.'"

Cleone was rigid. Her fingers tightened unconsciously on Sir Maurice's arm.

"'Jettan being a great favourite among the young sparks here, they all, having got wind of the affair, combined among themselves, laying wagers about the fight, the most of the money being laid on Jettan, as I hear. Then to bait him, or what-not, they conspired to be present at the meeting despite Jettan's protests. The Marquis laughed mightily here, and said that Jettan threatened to read them an ode should they appear, which he seemed to find vastly entertaining on account of some joke or other concerning Jettan's poetry.'"

"Philip's poetry?..." said Sir Maurice faintly. "Proceed, Bancroft."

"Ay, wait a bit! Here we are: 'The Marquis was going to be present, having heard of the rumour, and swore to take me along with him. The which I did consent to, as you may imagine. Well, we came out to Neuilly in due course at half-after eight one morning, and mighty cold it was, but that's neither here nor there. There we found a fair gathering of young rakes with their horses or chariots, some half dozen in all, laying wagers and all mightily amused. And, stap me, if there was not a fiddler scraping away as if his life depended on it. Soon after we were come, up drives a coach and out jumps three men, the first in great disorder at finding so many there assembled. This was Jettan, and prodigious elegant and finicky he was, too, all patched and painted, and tricked up in velvets and silks and I don't know what. He fell into a great rage, though he was laughing half the time, and, indeed, 'twas a ridiculous situation, and he could scarce help but to be tickled by it. He turns to his seconds and rates them, but they were too amused to do aught but to hold their sides. Then young Jettan orders us all off and especially begs the Marquis to exert his influence, which he would not do. Then Jettan appealed to us to withdraw, whereat they were all the more entertained, and adjured him to se taire, as they call it, calling him petit Philippe and the like. Then Jettan started to laugh himself and pulls out a roll of parchment from his pocket, and was for declaiming some ode he had writ, but that three of them took it from him. Then he says, "At least, send that damned fiddler away!" and they replied, "All in good time," but 'twas himself had asked for him. Before he could say more, which he was about to do, up comes another coach, and out gets your boy, Henry, and his seconds. When they saw what was toward they were mightily put out, as you may imagine, and, indeed, Henry was white and purple with rage, saying this was an insult and he was not to be so mocked, and the like. His seconds spoke apart with young Jettan's, and I give you my word, they were dancing with fury, at least one was, but the little one seemed more entertained. Then up comes Jettan, very solemn and dignified, and bows to Henry. "I ask you to believe, moosoo," says he, "that this is none of my designing. I desire," says he, "to offer you my apologies for my friends' ill-timed pleasantry." Henry could scarce mouth forth a word, so enraged was he, and was for retiring at once, saying that he had borne much, but this was too much. The fiddler was ordered to stop his scraping now, and the onlookers all vowed they had come with serious intent to watch the fight, and would not go until they had done so. Jettan offers to meet Henry another day, when and where he will, but I could see Henry was burning to run him through. "Since we are here," says he, "let us go on with it. I await your convenience," he says, and, "I thank you," replies Jettan and stands back. Henry's seconds were all for retiring, but he'd have none of it, and bids them go to and choose the ground. At last all was prepared, and the two stripped off their coats and vests. Everyone was becomingly sober now, and, indeed, mighty anxious for young Jettan, who is the smaller of the two, and Henry looking murder as he was. Henry fought devilish hard, and, indeed, is a cunning fencer, as you no doubt apprehend, but young Jettan was like a bit of quicksilver, in and out with his sword most finicky and dainty. Soon we saw that Henry was no match for him at all, and, indeed, could have been run through the body a score of times, Jettan playing with him very pretty to see, but I was sore distressed to see Henry so put to it. He gave Jettan but the faintest scratch, and before we knew what was to do, there was Henry reeling back and his sword on the ground. At which Jettan bows very polite, and but a mite out of breath, and picks up the sword and hands it to Henry. Henry was for continuing, and a brave lad he is, but the seconds would have none of it, and 'twas all over. "I trust you are satisfied, sir?" says Jettan. "Satisfied be damned!" pants Henry, clutching at his shoulder. "Of the other matter between us," says Jettan, "I can only counsel you to remember, for I meant what I said." Then he walks off and we rode away.'" Bancroft stopped. "I saw the joke was against me. What do ye think of that, Sir Maurice?"

Sir Maurice drew a deep breath.

"My God, I would I had been there!" he said fervently.

"Ay, 'twould have been a fine sight, I vow! But did ye ever hear the like of it? Philip and the petticoats, eh? These lads, Sir Maurice! These lads! Satterthwaite says he writes madrigals and what-not to the ladies' eyelashes!" Bancroft went off into a long chuckle. "And so ruffled my young hot-head, who had always a way with the petticoats!"

Cleone rose and walked to the window. She opened it, cooling her hot cheeks. And there she stayed, seated on the low couch that ran under the window, until Bancroft finally took his departure.

When Sir Maurice returned from seeing his guest out of the house, he found her pale again, and very stiff.

"Ahem!" said Sir Maurice. Then, brusquely: "Pack o' lies!"

"Do you think so?" said Cleone hopefully.

"Of course I do! The boy is but doing what I told him to do—acquiring polish and savoir faire with your sex, my dear."

Cleone sprang up.

"You told him to—oh, how could you, sir?"

"My dear, it's less than nothing, I dare swear. But Philip worsting Bancroft like that! Philip the pet of Society! Gad, I never hoped for this!"

"Nor I," said Cleone bitterly. "And—and 'tis my own—f-fault—for—s-sending him away—s-so c-cruelly, but—but—oh, how dare he?"

Sir Maurice was silent.

"He—he—I thought he—" she broke off, biting her lip. After a slight pause she spoke again, with would-be lightness. "I—do you know, I think I shall go to my aunt after all?"

"Will you, my dear?" said Sir Maurice.

That evening he was moved to write to his brother, an infrequent proceeding. The outcome of that letter was a brief note from Tom, which reached Philip a week later.

"Dear Nephew,—The Devil's in it now and no Mistake. Old Satterthwaite was Present at your crazy Duel, and has writ the whole Tale to Harry Bancroft, who, curse him for an interfering old Fool, read it to your Father and Cleone. The Tale is that you and B. quarrelled over some French Minx, which may be True for all I know. In any Case, Cleone is monstrous put out, and Comes to Towne to her Aunt, old Sally Malmerstoke. Maurice writes me this and demands your Return, being Upset for the Girl's sake, but secretly Delighted at the Story, if I read his Letter aright. Do as you please, dear Boy, but I warn you, Cleone is in the Mood for any Madness, as is the way when a Maid thinks herself slighted. And she is a Prodigious pretty Chit. My love to Château-Banvau and to Yr Self.—Tom."