Powder and Patch Read Online Free Page B

yourself, your fellow men, and the world.” He paused, studying his son. Then he smiled. “Well? What have you to say to my peroration?”
    Philip answered simply, and in admiration,
    “Why, sir, that I am spellbound by your fluency. In truth, Father, you have a remarkably beautiful voice.”
    “Bah!” snapped Sir Maurice.
     
    Chapter III. Mr Bancroft Brings Trouble into Little Fittledean
     
    On a particularly sunny morning, some five or six days after Mr Jettan’s return from London town, the main street of Little Fittledean was made brighter still by the passage of an Apparition.
    The Apparition wore a coat of palest apricot cloth, with a flowered vest of fine brocade, and startling white small-clothes. Red-heeled shoes were on his feet, and his stockings were adorned by sprawling golden clocks. He carried an amber-clouded cane and a jewelled snuff-box, while ever and anon he raised a cobwebby handkerchief to his aristocratic nose. He minced down the street towards the market place, followed by the awestricken glances of an amazed population. The inhabitants of the village had never seen anything so wonderful or so remarkable as this gorgeous gentleman. They watched the high red heels
    click along the road, and admired the beautiful set of the Apparition’s coat. A group of children stopped playing to stare, open-mouthed. The Apparition heeded them not. It may have been that he was oblivious of their existence. Not even when a piping treble, requested “John” to “look’ee now at them shoes!” did he show that he realised the presence of anyone but himself in the village. He minced on, very languid, and suitably bored. Further down the street a gentleman had reined in his horse to speak to a curtseying dame, who plucked shyly at her apron, smiling up at him. Presently he, too, became aware of the sound of clicking heels. Even as the buxom dame gazed past him with wide eyes, he looked up and saw the Apparition.
    I would not have you think that the Apparition noticed him. On he went, swinging his cane and yawning.
    Sir Maurice turned in his saddle the better to see those pearly small-clothes. His horse cocked both ears inquiringly and blew down his nostrils.
    “Well, I’m damned!” said Sir Maurice beneath his breath. “Puppy!”
    Mr Bancroft proceeded leisurely towards the market place. He was very, very bored, and he had walked over from Great Fittledean in search of possible amusement. He almost despaired of finding it, but Fate favoured him.
    Crossing the market place, a basket on her arm and a very becoming hat tied over her curls, was Mistress Cleone. She was tripping along quite unconcernedly, her cheeks just tinged with colour, and her big eyes bluer than ever. Mr Bancroft lost a little of his languor. It might almost be said that his eye brightened.
    Cleone was coming towards him, and it was markedly evident that Mr Bancroft made no attempt to step aside. On the contrary, he appeared to be engrossed in the contemplation of a cat right away on his left. Cleone was peeping inside her basket; she did not perceive Mr Bancroft until she had walked into him. Then she gave a startled cry, fell back, and stared. Mr Bancroft was profuse in his apologies. He swept off his hat and made her a low bow, sinking back and back on his bent left leg.
    “Oh!” gasped Cleone, becomingly fluttered. “Gracious! Is it you, Mr Bancroft?” Mr Bancroft said that it was. He was very modest about it, and he dubbed himself a clod-hopping oaf so to have discommoded Cleone.
    Cleone dimpled, curtseyed, and prepared to go on her way. This, however, Mr Bancroft would not allow. He insisted on taking her basket, which, he protested, was monstrous heavy for her fair hands to support.
    Cleone looked up at him provocatively. “Sir, I fear I am a stranger to you!”
    “A stranger! Why, madam, is it likely that once I had seen I could ever forget your sweet face?” cried Mr Bancroft. “Those blue eyes, madam, left a deep imprint