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faintly tinged with pink. “What more?” she retorted. “’Tis all it is!” Into Philip’s eyes came a gleam of triumph. “Aha! You’ve counted, then! Oh, Cleone!” The roguish look fled.
    “Oh” cried Cleone, pouting. “How—how—monstrous—” “Monstrous what, dear Cleone?”
    “Impudent!” she ended. “I declare I won’t see you!” As if to add weight to this statement, she shut the casement and moved away into the room.
    Presently, however, she relented, and tripped downstairs to the withdrawing-room, where she found Mr Jettan paying his respects to her mamma. She curtseyed very demurely, allowed him to kiss the tips of her fingers, and seated herself beside Madame Charteris. Madam patted her hand.
    “Well, child, here is Philip returned from Town with not a word to tell us of his gaiety!” Cleone raised her eyes to survey Philip.
    “Mamma, there is naught to tell. Philip is such a staid, sober person.” “Tut-tut!” said her mother. “Now, Philip, tell us all! Did you not meet one beauty to whom you lost your heart?”
    “No, madam,” answered Philip. “The painted society dames attract me not at all.” His eyes rested on Cleone as he spoke.
    “I dare say you’ve not yet heard the news?” Cleone said, after a slight pause. “Or did Sir Maurice tell you?”
    “No—that is, I do not know. What is it? Good news?”
    “It remains to be seen,” she replied. “’Tis that Mr Bancroft is to return! What think you of that?”
    Philip stiffened.
    “Bancroft? Sir Harold’s son?”
    “Yes, Henry Bancroft. Is it not exciting? Only think—he has been away nigh on eight years! Why, he must be”—she began to count on her rosy-tipped fingers—“twenty-six, or twenty-seven. Oh, a man! I do so wonder what he is like now!” “H’m!” remarked Philip. His voice held no enthusiasm. “What does he want here?” Cleone’s long lashes fluttered down to hide the laugh in her eyes. “To see papa, of course. After so many years!”
    Philip gave vent to a sound very like a snort.
    “I’ll wager there’s a more potent reason! Else had he come home ere now.” “Well, I will tell you. Papa rode over to Great Fittledean two days ago, and he found Sir Harold mightily amused, did he not, Mamma?”
    Madame Charteris assented vaguely. She was stitching at a length of satin, content to drop out of the conversation.
    “Yes. It seems that Henry—”
    “Who?” Philip straightened in his chair.
    “Mr Bancroft,” said Cleone. A smile trembled on her lips. “It seems that Mr Bancroft has had occasion to fight a duel. Is it not too dreadful?”
    Philip agreed with more heartiness than he had yet shown.
    “I am sure I do not know why gentlemen must fight. ’Tis very terrible, I think. But, of course, ’tis monstrous gallant and exciting. And poor Mr Bancroft has been advised to leave London for a while, because some great personage is angered. Papa did not say who was the gentleman he fought, but Sir Harold was vastly amused.” She glanced up at Philip, in time to catch sight of the scornful frown on his face. “Oh, Philip, do you know? Have you perhaps heard?”
    “No one who has been in Town this last week could fail to have heard,” said Philip shortly. Then, very abruptly, he changed the subject.
    When Philip came back to the Pride it was close on the dinner hour. He walked slowly upstairs to change his clothes, for on that point Sir Maurice was obdurate. He would not allow buckskins or riding-boots at his table. He himself was fastidious to a fault. Every evening he donned stiff satins arid velvets; his thin face was painted, powdered and patched; his wig tied with great precision in the nape of his neck. He walked now with a stick, but his carriage was still fairly upright. The stick was, as Philip told him, a mere affectation.
    Philip was rather silent during the first part of the meal, but when the lackeys left the room, and Sir Maurice pushed the port towards him, he spoke