"We'll leave it at that," said Sir Maurice. "Now choose me a rose, little witch. Gad, if I were ten years younger I'd make Philip jealous myself!" Cleone tip-toed, her hands on his shoulders. "You are very, very wicked," she told him gravely. Sir Maurice kissed her. "So are you, minx, and I want you for my daughter. We are so well suited." Cleone blushed fiery red and hid her face in his coat. * * * * * Sir Maurice rode home wrapped in thought. Now and again he chuckled softly to himself, but when later he met his son he was as solemn as ever. Philip came into the library, riding-whip in hand. He had been on the fields all the morning, and Sir Maurice eyed his boots with disfavour. Philip sank into a chair. "Two of the big meadows are cut, sir. We should finish by next week." He glanced anxiously out of the window. "I hope the rain holds off." "Oh, it will," replied his father placidly. "I am not so sure. Last summer the hay was black. Did you--er--did you ride into the village?" "I did." "And--and did you go to--Sharley House?" "Ay." "Are they--did they accept?" Philip played with his whip, feigning unconcern. "They did. I met that fellow Bancroft." "Oh!" said Philip. "Where?" "In the rose-garden," yawned Sir Maurice. The whip fell to the ground. "What? In the rose-garden? Whose rose-garden?" "At Sharley House, of course." "Where--was--What was he doing there?" "He was sitting in the arbour, talking to Cleone." "Confound him!" growled Philip, as if his worst fears were realised. "What's he like?" Sir Maurice glanced across at him. "He is about your height--perhaps a little taller. He--ah--seems to have a soft tongue and an engaging manner." "Oh, has he?" Philip's voice was startlingly grim. "He and Cleone were renewing their old friendship." "Oh, were they? What old friendship? He was never our friend!" "No, I suppose not," said Sir Maurice innocently. "He is some six or seven years older than you, is he not?" "Five!" said Philip emphatically. "Only five? Of course, he looks and seems older, but he has seen more of the world, which accounts for it." To this Philip vouchsafed no answer at all, but he looked at his father with some suspicion. Sir Maurice allowed two or three minutes to elapse before he spoke again. "By the way, Philip, Bancroft dines with us on Wednesday." Up sprang Philip in great annoyance. "What's that, sir? Dines here, and on Wednesday? Surely you did not invite the fellow?" "But I did," answered Sir Maurice blandly. "Why not?" "Why not? What do we want with him?" "It remains to be seen." Sir Maurice hid a smile. "Bancroft is most desirous of meeting you." Philip made a sound betwixt a grunt and a snort. "More like he wishes to pursue his acquaintance with Cl--Mistress Cleone," he retorted. "Well, she's a pretty piece," said his father. Philip glared at him. "If I find him annoying Cleone with his damned officious attentions, I'll--I'll--"