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suddenly, as if the words had hovered on his tongue for some time.
    “Father, do you hear that Bancroft is to return?”
    Sir Maurice selected a nut from the dish before him, cracking it between his long, white fingers.
    “I believe someone told me. What of it?” “You said nothing of it to me.”
    The grey eyes lifted.
    “Is he a friend of yours? I did not know.”
    “A friend!” Philip set his glass down with a snap. “Hardly, sir!” “Now what’s to do?” asked his father. “Why the scorn?” “Sir, if you could but hear the gossip about him!”
    “I have no doubt I should be vastly entertained,” said Sir Maurice. “What’s the tale?” “The fellow is for ever embroiling himself in some low quarrel. This time it is Lady Marchand. Faugh!”
    “Lady Marchand? Not Dolly Marchand?” “I believe so. Why, sir, do you know her?”
    “I—er—knew her mother. Tell me, is she as charming?” “As I know neither her mother, nor Lady Marchand—” Sir Maurice sighed.
    “No. Of course not. Go on.”
    “It’s a damned sordid tale, sir, and I’ll spare you the details. Lord Marchand and Bancroft fought out at Ipswich.; Bancroft wounded him in the lung, and ’tis said he’ll not recover.” “Clumsy,” remarked Sir Maurice. “So Bancroft retires?”
    “The Prince of Wales is furious, as well he might be. And Bancroft brings himself and his morals here.”
    A faint smile hovered on Sir Maurice’s lips.
    “And Mr. Jettan is righteously indignant. From which I gather that Mistress Cleone is prepared to welcome this slayer of hearts. You’d best have bought a wig, Philip.” In spite of himself, Philip laughed.
    “Sir, you are incorrigible!”
    “Faute de mieux. And whence, if I may ask, did you glean all this—sordid information, oh my righteous son?”
    “From Tom, of course. He could talk of nothing else.”
    “Alack! The saint is still upon his pedestal. In fact, the story was forced upon you. Philip, you enrage me.” He looked up and met his son’s amused glance. “Yes, child, I am enraged. Pass the wine.”
    Philip pushed the decanter towards him. His rather stern eyes were twinkling. “I’ll swear no one ever before possessed so outrageous a sire,” he said. “I’ve heard of some who disinherited their sons for disreputable behaviour, but it seems you are like to disinherit me for irreproachable conduct.”
    “It’s a piquante situation,” agreed Sir Maurice. “But I shan’t disinherit you.” “No?”
    “Where’s the use? With no money you could not hope to—ah—follow in my footsteps. I’ve a mind to turn you out of the house, though.”
    “Half a mind,” corrected Philip. “The other half, sir, rejoices in my unblemished reputation.” “Does it?” Sir Maurice was mildly interested. “Faith, I did not know that.” “Sir, were I to break away and become as flighty as you wish, no one would be more aghast than yourself.”
    “You infer, my son, that I desire you to follow not in my footsteps, but in—let us say, Bancroft’s. Nothing could more thoroughly disgust me.”
    “Ah!” Philip leant forward eagerly. “You admit that?” Sir Maurice sipped his wine.
    “Certainly. I abhor clumsiness in an affaire.” He watched Philip draw back. “An affaire of the heart should be daintily conducted. A Jettan should bear in mind that for him there can be only one love; the others,” he waved his hand, “should be treated with the delicacy that they deserve. Above all, they should end lightly. I would have no woman the worse for you, child, but I would have you know women and the world. I would have you experience the pleasures and the displeasures of Polite Society; I would have you taste the joys of Hazard, and the exhilaration of your sword against another’s; I would have you take pains in the selection of a cravat, or the designing of a vest; I would have you learn the way to turn a neat compliment and a pretty phrase; above all, I would have you know