"James!" He held out his hands to the puzzled youth. "You have forgotten, James? And it is, so Mademoiselle tells me, but six months since I saw you every day." Winton stared. Then suddenly he grasped Philip's jewelled hand. "Jettan--Philip! Merciful heavens, man, is it indeed you?" "He is quite transformed, is he not?" said Cleone lightly. A little barb was piercing her heart that Philip should show such pleasure at seeing James, and merely bored affectation with her. Philip's gay laugh rang out. "I shall write a sonnet in melancholy vein," he promised. "A sonnet to "Friends Who Knew Me Not." It will be a _chef-d'[oe]uvre_, and I shall send it you tied with a sprig of myrtle." Winton stepped back the better to observe him. "Thunder and turf, tis marvellous! What's this about a sonnet? Don't tell me ye have turned poet!" "In Paris they do not love my verses," mourned Philip. "They would say, 'No, _le petit Philippe se trompe_.' But you shall see! Where are you staying?" "With Darchit--in Jermyn Street. I came to London in my lady's train." He bowed to Cleone. Philip's eyes narrowed. "Aha! James, you will come to a card-party that I am giving to-morrow? I am at 14 Curzon Street." "Thank you very much, I shall be delighted. Have you set up a house of your own?" "Sir Humphrey Grandcourt has hired his house to me for a month or so. My _ménage_ will amuse you. I am ruled by my valet, the redoubtable François." "A French valet!" "But yes! He would allow no English servant to insult me with his boorishness, so I have his cousin for _chef_." He threw a laughing glance at Cleone. "You would smile, Mademoiselle, could you but hear his so fierce denunciation of the English race." Cleone forced a laugh. "I suppose he does not regard you as English, Mr. Jettan?" "If I suggest such a thing he accuses me of mocking him. Ah, there is Miss Florence who beckons me! Mademoiselle will excuse me?" He bowed with a great flourish. "I shall hope to be allowed to wait on madame, your aunt. James, do not forget! To-morrow at 14 Curzon Street!" He swept round on his heel and went quickly to where Mistress Florence Farmer was seated. Cleone watched him kiss the lady's plump hand, and saw the ogling glances that Florence sent him. Desperately she sought to swallow the lump in her throat. She started to flirt with the adoring James. Out of the corner of his eye Philip watched her. * * * * * Scalding tears dropped on to Cleone's pillow that night. Philip had returned, indifferent, _blasé_, even scornful! Philip who had once loved her so dearly, Philip who had once been so strong and masterful, was now a dainty, affected Court gallant. Why, why had she sent him away? And, oh, how dared he treat her with that mocking admiration? Suddenly Cleone sat up. "I hate him!" she told the bed-post. "I hate him, and hate him, and hate him." * * * * *