"Or I shall have a small-sword through my heart, _hein_?" Philip smiled. "That is absurd, sir." * * * * * That night he gave a card-party. The play was high and the bottles numerous. He lost some money, won a little, and was put to bed by his valet long after dawn. He awoke later with a splitting headache, but he considered himself a man. That was in September. Seven Mr. Bancroft Comes to Paris and Is Annoyed In February came Mr. Bancroft to Paris. Philip's departure from Little Fittledean had been closely followed by his own, for he found that Cleone no longer smiled. Also, the spice of wooing her was gone when there was no jealous lover to flout. He waited until his _affaire_ had blown over, and then he went back to London. Now, very blasé, he came to Paris in search of new pastimes. It was not long before he met Philip. And the manner of the meeting was delightfully sensational. Under the auspices of his friend, M. de Chambert, he attended a rout at the hotel of the Duchesse de Maugry. He was presented to one Mademoiselle de Chaucheron, a sprightly little lady, with roguish black eyes. Mr. Bancroft was content to form one of the small court she held. Several old acquaintances he met, for he was not unknown in Paris. Conversation flourished for some time. But suddenly Mademoiselle cried out, clapping her hands: "_Le voilà, notre petit Philippe! Eh bien, petit Anglais?_" A slight gentleman in peach-coloured satin, powdered, painted, perfumed, came quickly through the group and went down on one knee before her. "At thy most exquisite feet, my lady!" Delighted, she gave him her hand to kiss. "And where have you been this long while, _vaurien_?" Philip kissed the tips of her fingers, one by one. "Languishing in outer darkness, _chérie_." "The darkness of the Court!" laughed the Comte de Saint-Dantin. "Philippe, I know you for a rogue and a trifler!" Philip looked up, still holding Mademoiselle's hand. "Someone has maligned me. Of what am I accused?" Mademoiselle rapped his knuckles with her fan. "_Voyons!_ Have you finished with my hand?" Instantly he turned back to her. "I have lost count! Now I must begin again. One moment, Comte, I am much occupied!" Gravely he kissed each rosy finger a second time. "And one for the lovely whole. _Voilà!_" "You are indeed a rogue," she told him. "For you care--not one jot!" "If that were true I were a rogue beyond reprieve," he answered gaily. "You don't deceive me, _le petit Philippe_!... So sweet, so amiable, so great a flatterer--with no heart to lose!" "Rumour hath it that 'tis already lost," smiled De Bergeret. "Eh, Philippe?" "Lost an hundred times," mourned Philip, "and retrieved never!" "Oh!" Mademoiselle started back in mock-anger. "Wretch that thou art, and so fickle! Rise! I'll no more of you!"