Now he was talking of town and its allure, toying with the names of first one celebrity and then another. And Cleone drinking in the silly, smug talk!... Now hints at conquests made--veiled allusions to his own charms. Ape!--truckling, overdressed ape! Suddenly Philip wanted to throw his glass at Bancroft. He choked down the mad impulse, and strove to listen to Mr. Charteris. Back in the withdrawing-room again it was worse. Sir Maurice asked Cleone to sing, and she went to the spinet. Bancroft followed, to choose her music, to turn the pages, to gaze at her in frank admiration. Damn him, damn him, damn him! * * * * * The party came to an end at last; Philip was alone with his father. Sir Maurice leaned his chin in his hand, watching him amusedly. For a long while Philip said nothing, but presently he brought his eyes away from the window and looked at his father. "And that," he said bitingly, "is what you would have me. A conceited, painted puppy, fawning and leering on every woman that crosses his path!" "Not at all." Sir Maurice took out his snuff-box and opened it. "'Tis the last thing in the world I would have you." "You said--" "I said I would have you a very perfect gentleman, knowing the world and its ways." "Well?--" "You perhaps conceive Mr. Bancroft a perfect gentleman?" "Not I! 'Tis you who--" Sir Maurice raised one delicate hand. "Pardon me! You choose to assume that I thought it. Mr. Bancroft is, as you so truly remark, a conceited, painted puppet. But he apes, so far as he is able, the thing that I am; that I wish you to become. You are a country-bumpkin, my dear; he is a coddled doll. Strive to become something betwixt the two." "I had sooner be what I am!" "Which is a conceited oaf." "Sir!" Sir Maurice rose, leaning on his cane. "Remain what you are, my son, but bethink you--which will Cleone prefer? Him who gives her graceful homage, and charms her ears with honeyed words, or him who is tongue-tied before her, who is careless of his appearance, and who treats her, not as a young and beautiful girl, but as his inevitable possession?" Philip answered quickly. "Cleone, sir, will--give herself where she pleases, but she is not one to over-rate the tricks of such as Bancroft." "Or to under-rate the discomforts of tying herself to one who is tied to the soil and his own pleasure," said Sir Maurice softly. The grey eyes met his, a trifle hurt. "I am selfish, Father? Because I will not become the thing I despise?" "And narrow, Philip, to despise what you do not know." "Thank you!" The young voice was exceedingly bitter. "I am to be a painted popinjay! I tell you, sir, Cleone must take me as I am." "Or leave you as you are," said Sir Maurice gently. "A warning, sir?" "That's for you to judge, child. And now I'll to bed." He paused, looking at his son. Philip went to him. "Good night, sir." Sir Maurice smiled, holding out his hand. "Good night, my son." Philip kissed his fingers.