LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI THE enterprise thus mysteriously designated turned out to be nothing worse than an afternoon reception, and was the first of many. Philip, remembering why Peggy had sent him to live with Tim, began conscientiously to school himself to the rigours of a society life. He went everywhere and flinched at nothing. He learned to converse with the modern _ingénue_ without feeling like an infant of five; he learned to endure the cross-examination of dowagers without looking as if his one idea was to bolt. He went to balls and crushes. He was introduced to Ranelagh, and became acquainted with mixed foursomes. He did the thing thoroughly. It was all a means to an end, he felt. He was a dull dog: he had no parlour tricks. In Peggy's eyes, although in her kindness of heart she endeavoured to conceal the fact, he was only Most Excellent Theophilus, a worthy person. Ergo, he must overcome these defects in his character and then try his luck again. So he attached himself to that admitted social luminary, Tim Rendle, as a humble disciple, acquiring merit by abandoning some of his favourite recreations and going out at night when he would rather have been in bed. It was an ingenuous and characteristic method of procedure, and it puzzled Peggy more than a little. "You are becoming quite a butterfly, Theophilus," she said to him one day. "I thought you did not like gadding about." "Neither I do, very much," confessed Philip. "Excepting, of course, when--except at such times as--well, _now_, in fact!" he concluded bluntly. They were walking along the Chelsea Embankment together on their way to the new flat,--completely equipped at last,--where Peggy and Miss Leslie were to be entertained at a great housewarming tea-party. It was the first time that they had been alone together for nearly a month. "Thank you, kind sir," replied Peggy, with a gracious inclination of her head. "But why don't you like it? Isn't it pleasant to go out somewhere after a hard, dull day, and meet your friends, and talk about things that don't matter, and forget all about Oxford Street?" "Yes," agreed Philip, "I suppose it is. I will confess this much: I know I should hate to go back to my old life at Wigmore Street now. I have widened out to that extent. But the worst of these social functions is that you have to put in a terrible lot of spadework before you get down to what you came out for." "You mean supper?" suggested Peggy, with intentional flippancy. She found it difficult to control Philip's movements in conversation. He had no small talk. Introduce him to a topic, and in five minutes he had brushed aside the flimsy superficialities to which we are content to confine ourselves in our social encounters, and was digging heavily at the fundamental root of the matter.