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 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."