"Ay. That's what I don't understand. The pair of them are playing a queer game. Old Sally Malmerstoke told me that Cleone vows she hates Philip. The chit is flirting outrageously with every man who comes--always under Philip's nose. And Philip laughs. Yet I'll swear he means to have her. I don't interfere. They must work out their own quarrel." "Clo doesn't hate Philip," said Sir Maurice. "She was pining for him until that fool Bancroft read us Satterthwaite's letter. Was it true that Philip fought over some French hussy?" "No, over Clo herself. But he says naught, and if the truth were told, I believe it's because he has had _affaires_ in Paris, even if that was not one. He's too dangerously popular." "So it seemed from Satterthwaite's account. Is he so popular? I cannot understand it." "He's novel, y'see. I'd a letter from Château-Banvau the other day, mourning the loss of _ce cher petit_ Philippe, and demanding whether he had found his heart or no!" Sir Maurice drove his cane downwards. "By Gad, if Philip's so great a success, it's--it's more than ever I expected," he ended lamely. "Wait till you see him!" smiled Thomas. "The boy's for all the world like a bit o' quicksilver. He splutters out French almost every time he opens his mouth, and--here he is!" A door banged loudly outside, and a clear, crisp voice floated into the library from the hall. "_Mordieu_, what a climate! Moggat, you rogue, am I not depressed enough without your glum face to make me more so? Smile, _vieux crétin_, for the love of God!" "Were I to call Moggat one-half of the names Philip bestows on him, he'd leave me," remarked Tom. "With him, Philip can do no wrong. Now what's to do?" "_Doucement, malheureux!_ Gently, I say! Do you wish to pull my arms off with the coat? _Ah, voilà!_ Spread it to dry, Moggat, and take care not to crease it. Yes, that is well!" Then came Moggat's voice, very self-conscious. "_C'est comme moosoo désire?_" There was a sound of hand-clapping, and an amused laugh. "_Voyons, c'est fameux!_ Quite the French scholar, eh, Moggat? Where's my uncle? In the library?" Came a quick step across the hall. Philip swirled into the room. "Much have I borne in silence, Tom, but this rain--" He broke off. The next moment he was on one knee before his father, Sir Maurice's thin hands pressed to his lips. "Father!" Tom coughed and walked to the window. Sir Maurice drew his hands away. He took Philip's chin in his long fingers and forced his head up. Silently he scrutinised his son's face. Then he smiled. "You patched and painted puppy-dog," he mimicked softly. Philip laughed. His hands found Sir Maurice's again and gripped hard. "Alack, too true! Father, you're looking older." "Impudent young scapegrace! What would you? I have but one son." "And you missed him?" "A little," acknowledged Sir Maurice. Philip rose to his feet. "Ah, but I am glad! And you are sorry you sent him away?"