Cleone sat down again. Her eyes flashed; Philip was nearer than ever to his downfall. "I entirely fail to understand you, sir," she answered. "Do you love that--that prancing ninny?" asked Philip. "I consider such a question an--an impertinence!" cried Cleone. "What right have you to ask me such a thing?" Philip's brows met across the bridge of his nose. "You do love him?" "No, I don't! I mean--Oh, how dare you?" Philip came closer. The frown faded. "Cleone--do you--could you--love me?" Cleone was silent. Closer still came Philip, and spoke rather huskily. "Will you--marry me, Cleone?" Still silence, but the blue eyes were downcast. "Cleone," blundered Philip, "you--don't want a--mincing, powdered--beau." "I do not want a--a--raw--country-bumpkin," she said cruelly. Philip drew himself up. "That is what you think me, Cleone?" Something in his voice brought tears to her eyes. "I--no--I--oh, Philip, I _could_ not marry you as you are!" "No?" Philip spoke very evenly. "But if I became--your ideal--you could marry me?" "I--oh, you should not--ask such questions!" "As I am--you'll none of me. You do not want--an honest man's love. You want the pretty compliments of a doll. If I will learn to be--a doll--you'll wed me. Well, I will learn. You shall not be--annoyed--by an honest man's love--any longer. I will go to London--and one day I'll return. Farewell, Cleone." "Oh--goodness--are you--going to town?" she gasped. "Since that is your desire, yes," he answered. She held out her hand, and when he kissed it her fingers clung for an instant. "Come back to me, Philip," she whispered. He bowed, still holding her hand, and then, without a word, released it, and marched out, very dignified. It was another fine tragic effect, but Cleone, when the door closed behind him, broke into an hysterical laugh. She was rather amazed, and a little apprehensive. Five In Which Philip Finds That His Uncle Is More Sympathetic Than His Father