"I see," said Cleone, and thought that she spoke the truth. Her foot tapped the ground angrily. Philip eyed it through his glass. "That little foot ..." he said softly. It was withdrawn. "Ah, cruel! It inspired me with--I think--a madrigal. Cased in silver satin.... Ah!" "It pleases you to make merry of my foot, sir?" "_Jamais de ma vie!_" Philip threw out his hands. "It is neither food for merriment nor sighs. It is food for pure joy. My eye, _chère mademoiselle_, is susceptible to beauty, be it beauty of face, or beauty of foot; the eye whispers to the brain, and a madrigal blossoms. I dare swear you have listened to an hundred such? Everywhere I have heard tell of your conquests until I am nigh dead with jealousy." "How very absurd!" tittered Cleone. "Absurd? Ah, if I could think that!" "I do not understand you, sir!" "I can only beg that I, too, may worship at those little feet." "Mr. Jettan, I can only beg that you will cease to make yourself ridiculous." "If it is ridiculous to adore, then must I refuse to obey you, fairest. For the sake of one smile, all would I do, save that which is without my power." Cleone's eyes glittered. "You have become very adept at flattery, sir." "But no! Flattery shall never be among my accomplishments, even were it necessary, which here"--he smiled ardently--"it most assuredly is not." "You surprise me, sir! I thought Paris to be the home of flattery." "_On l'a diffamée._ Paris teaches appreciation." "La!" Cleone, too, could be affected. "You go too deep for me, Mr. Jettan! I fear I am no match for your wit. I am but newly come from the country." The words bit. "It is almost inconceivable," he said, studying her with the air of a connoisseur. "Almost as inconceivable as the fact that little more than six months ago you despised all this!" She made a gesture with her fan towards his shimmering coat. "Was it only six months? It seems to belong to another life. You remember so well, mademoiselle." "I?" Cleone saw her mistake, and made haste to cover it. "No, sir. It is dear Sir Maurice who remembers." Her eyes sought his face for some change of expression. But not an eyelash flickered; Mr. Jettan was still smiling. "Now I am desolated!" he sighed. "Mademoiselle Cleone does not remember the manner of my going? But I see that it is so. She is blessed with forgetfulness." Cleone's heart leaped. Was there a note of _pique_, of hurt, in the smooth voice? "My memory is not of the longest either, mademoiselle, but I am sure that I am indebted to you." "Really? I think you must be mistaken, sir." "It is possible," he bowed. "Yet I seem to recollect that 'twas you who bade me go--to learn to be a gentleman." Cleone laughed carelessly. "Did I?--It is so long ago, I have forgotten. And--and here is Mr. Winton come to claim me!" Philip glanced round quickly. Young James Winton was threading his way towards them. Philip sprang up.