But Philip said never a word. He stared and stared again at his reflection. He could not believe that it was himself. He saw a tall, slight figure dressed in a pale blue satin coat, and white small-clothes, flowered waistcoat, and gold-clocked stockings. High red-heeled shoes, diamond-buckled, were on his feet, lace foamed over his hands and at his neck, while a white wig, marvellously curled and powdered, replaced his shorn locks. Unconsciously he drew himself up, tilting his chin a little, and shook out his handkerchief. "Well!" The Marquis grew impatient. "You have nothing to say?" Philip turned. "_C'est merveilleux!_" he breathed. The Marquis beamed, but he shook his head. "In time, yes. At present, a thousand times no! _C'est gauche, c'est impossible!_" Unwontedly humble, Philip begged to be made less _gauche_. "It is my intention," said the Marquis. "A month or so and I shall be proud of my pupil." "Faith, I'm proud of ye now!" cried Tom. "Why, lad, you'll be more modish than ever Maurice was!" Philip flushed beneath his powder. A ruby on his finger caught his eye. He regarded it for a moment, frowning, then he took it off. "Oh?" queried the Marquis. "Why?" "I don't like it." "You don't like it? Why not?" "I don't know. I'll only wear sapphires and diamonds." "By heaven, the boy's right!" exclaimed Tom. "He should be all blue!" "In a month--two months--I shall present you at Versailles," decided the Marquis. "François, remove that abominable ruby. And now--_en avant_!" And so went Philip to his first ball. * * * * * At the end of the month Tom went home to London, having set his nephew's feet on the path he was to tread. He left him in charge of M. de Château-Banvau, who had by now developed a lively interest in him. After that first ball Philip threw off the last shreds of rebellion; he played his part well, and he became very busy. Every morning he fenced with an expert until he had acquired some skill with a small-sword; he spoke nothing but French from morn to night; he permitted the Marquis to introduce him into society; he strove to loosen his tongue, and he paid flippant court to several damsels who ogled him for his fine appearance, until his light conversation grew less forced and uncomfortable. For a while he took no interest in his tailoring, allowing Tom or François to garb him as they pleased. But one day, when François extended a pair of cream stockings to his gaze, he eyed them through his quizzing-glass for a long moment. Then he waved them aside. François was hurt; he liked those stockings. Would not M'sieur consider them? M'sieur most emphatically would not. If François admired pink clocks on a cream ground, let him take the stockings. M'sieur would not wear them; they offended him.