"So you are now a painted puppet?" said Tom politely. "What else?" "Dear me!" said Tom, and relapsed into profound meditation. "I want to have her love me for--myself, and not for my clothes, or my airs and graces. It's incomprehensible?" "Not entirely," answered Tom. "I understand your feelings. What's to do?" "Merely my baggage," said Philip, with another glance towards the window. "It is the coach that you hear." "No, not that." Tom listened. Voices raised in altercation sounded in the hall. Philip laughed. "That is the inimitable François. I do not think that Moggat finds favour in his eyes." "I'll swear he does not find favour in Moggat's eyes! Who is the other one?" "Jacques, my groom and _homme à tout faire_!" "Faith, ye've a retinue!" "What would you?" shrugged Philip. He sat down opposite his uncle, and stretched his legs to the fire. "Heigh-ho! I do not like this weather." "Nor anyone else. What are you going to do, now that you have returned?" "Who knows? I make my bow to London Society, I amuse myself a little--ah yes! and I procure a house." "Do you make your bow to Cleone?" An impish smile danced into Philip's eyes. "I present myself to Cleone--as she would have had me. A drawling, conceited, and mincing fop. Which I am not, believe me!" Tom considered him. "No, you're not. You don't drawl." "I shall drawl," promised Philip. "And I shall be very languid." "It's the fashion, of course. You did not adopt it?" "It did not entice me. I am _le petit sans repos_, and _le petit_ Philippe _au C[oe]ur Perdu_, and _petit original_. _Hé, hé_, I shall be homesick! It is inevitable." "Are you so much at home in Paris?" asked Tom, rather surprised. "You liked the Frenchies?" "Liked them! Could I have disliked them?" "I should have thought it possible--for you. Did you make many friends?" "_A revendre!_ They took me to their bosoms." "Did they indeed! Who do you count amongst your intimates?" "Saint-Dantin--you know him?" "I've met him. Tall and dark?" "Ay. Paul de Vangrisse, Jules de Bergeret, Henri de Chatelin--oh, I can't tell you! They are all charming!" "And the ladies?" "Also charming. Did you ever meet Clothilde de Chaucheron, or Julie de Marcherand? _Ah, voilà ce qui fait ressouvenir!_ I count that _rondeau_ one of my most successful efforts. You shall hear it some time or other." "That _what_?" ejaculated Tom, sitting upright in his surprise. "A _rondeau_: 'To the Pearl that Trembles in her Ear.' I would you could have seen it." "Which? The _rondeau_?" "The pearl, man! The _rondeau_ you shall most assuredly see." "Merciful heaven!" gasped Tom. "A _rondeau_! Philip--poet! _Sacr-ré mille petits cochons!_" * * * * * "Monsieur dines at home this evening?" asked François. Philip sat at his dressing-table, busy with many pots and his face. He nodded. "The uncle of Monsieur receives, without doubt?" "A card-party," said Philip, tracing his eyebrows with a careful hand.