The colour drained from Cleone's cheeks. She felt faint all at once, and her fingers gripped together over her fan. For one moment she thought she must be mistaken. This was not Philip, this foppish gentleman who stood bowing so profoundly! Heavens, he was speaking! It _was_ Philip! How could she mistake that square chin? "Mademoiselle, this is a scarce-hoped-for honour," he said. "I have watched and I have hungered. Lord Charles took pity on me, for which I shall never cease to thank him." Cleone tried to answer, and failed. Dazedly she stared at him, from the powdered curls of his wig to the diamond buckles on his shoes. Philip! _Philip!_ Philip in stiff silks and laces! Philip patched and painted! Philip with jewels scattered about his person, and polished nails! Was she dreaming? This foppish gentleman her blunt Philip? It was incredible, impossible! What was he saying now? "I little thought to find you here, mademoiselle! You are with Madame Charteris, no doubt?" Cleone collected her scattered wits. An awful numbness was stealing over her. "No, I--I am with my aunt, Lady Malmerstoke," she answered. "Lady Malmerstoke?..." Philip raised his quizzing-glass with one delicate white hand, and through it scanned the room. "Ah yes, the lady in the apple-green toilette! I remember her well, that lady." "Oh--do you--do you know her?" asked Cleone. She could not drag her eyes from his face. "I had the felicity of meeting her some nights ago. I forget where." "R--really?" Cleone decided that this was a nightmare. Philip sat down beside her. "You have been long in town, mademoiselle? You find all this very fatiguing, no doubt?" He waved a languid hand. Indignation was dispersing the numbness. How dared Philip drawl at her like this? How dared he behave as though they were strangers? "I have been in London nigh on a month. I do not find it fatiguing at all. I enjoy it." Slowly the straight brows rose. "But how refreshing!" said Philip. "When everyone is _ennuyé_ à _l'agonie_, how delightful to meet one who frankly enjoys." He looked at her admiringly. "And enjoyment becomes you better than boredom becomes other women." Cleone felt that she was drifting further and further into the nightmare. "I am happy to find favour in your eyes, sir. When did you return from Paris?" "A fortnight since. In a fog which chilled me to the marrow. Almost I fled back to France. But now"--he bowed gracefully--"I thank a kindly Fate which forbade me to retreat thus precipitately." "Indeed?" said Cleone tartly. "How do you find Sir Maurice?" "As yet I have not found him," replied Philip. There was a laugh at the back of his eyes. How dared he laugh at her? "I have written to beg him to honour my house with his presence." "You do not propose to go to him?" Cleone's voice trembled. Philip started. "Mademoiselle speaks _en plaisantant_? The country in this weather?" He shuddered.