"Never in your life!" Tom assured him. "Stand up, child, and let me look at you!" Then, as Philip clicked his heels together and faced him, laughing, his eyes widened, and his lips formed a soundless whistle. "By the Lord Harry, Philip, it's marvellous! How could you do it in six months----!" Philip rustled over to the fire and stooped, warming his hands. "Fog, cold, damp! Brrh! The unspeakable climate! Tom, it is permitted that I stay with you until I find an abode?" With difficulty his uncle withdrew his gape from Philip's claret-coloured coat of fine cloth, laced with gold. "Can you ask? Stay as long as you will, lad, you're a joy to behold!" "_Merci du compliment!_" smiled Philip. "You perhaps admire the mixture of claret and biscuit as I wear it?" Tom's eyes travelled down to the creaseless biscuit-coloured small-clothes. "Ay. I admire everything. The boots most of all. The boots--Philip, where did you obtain them?" Philip glanced carelessly down at his shapely leg. "They were made for me. Me, I am not satisfied with them. I shall give them to François." "Give them to François?" cried his uncle. "Ye wicked boy! Where is the fellow?" "He and Jacques are struggling with my baggage and Moggat." He stretched out a detaining hand as Tom started forward to the door. "Ah, do not disturb yourself. I have spoken with _ce bon_ Moggat, and all is well. He will arrange everything." Tom came back. "He will be in a frenzy, Philip! All that baggage!" "All--that baggage?" Philip spoke with uplifted brows. "It has arrived?" He went to the window and looked out. "But no, not yet." "B--but--is there more to come?" asked Tom. "But of course! The bulk follows me." Tom sat down weakly. "And you who six months ago thought yourself rich in the possession of three coats." Philip came back to the fire. He made a little grimace of distaste. "Those far-off days! That is ended--completely!" Tom cast him a shrewd glance. "What, all of it? Cleone?" "Ah!" Philip smiled. "That is--another--matter. I have to thank you for your letter, Tom." "It brought you back?" "_En partie._ She is here?" "Ay, with Sally Malmerstoke. She is already noticed. Sally takes her everywhere. She is now looked for--and courted." His eyes twinkled. "Oho!" said Philip. He poured out a glass of burgundy from the decanter that stood on a small table. "So she is furious with me, yes?" "So I believe. Satterthwaite wrote that you and Bancroft fought over the fair name of some French lass. Did you?" Philip sipped his wine. "Not a whit. 'Twas her own fair name, _à vrai dire_." "Oh! You'll tell her that, of course?" "Not at all." Tom stared. "What then? Have you some deep game in mind, Philip?" "Perhaps. Oh, I don't know! I thank her for reforming me, but, being human, I am hurt and angry! _Le petit Philippe se fâche_," he said, smiling suddenly. "He would see whether it is himself she loves, or--a painted puppet. It's foolish, but what would you?"