"_Ah, non, m'sieur!_ He does not lie abed late! Oh, but never, never. It is that the barber is here, and the tailor--imbeciles, both! They put M'sieur Philippe in a bad humour with their so terrible stupidity. He spends an hour explaining what it is that he wishes." François cast up his eyes. "And they do not understand, no! They are of so great a density! M'sieur Philippe he become much enraged, naturally." "Monsieur Philippe is very particular, eh?" François beamed. He was opening various pots in readiness for his master. "Yes, m'sieur. M'sieur Philippe must have everything just as he likes it." At that moment Philip walked in, wrapped in a gorgeous silk robe, and looking thunderous. When he saw his father his brow cleared. "You, sir? Have you waited long?" "No, only ten minutes or so. Have you strangled the tailor?" Philip laughed. "_De près! François_, I will be alone with M'sieur." François bowed. He went out with his usual hurried gait. Philip sat down before his dressing-table. "What do you think of the incomparable François?" he asked. "He startled me at first," smiled Sir Maurice. "A droll little creature." "But quite inimitable. You're out early this morning, sir?" "My dear Philip, it is close on noon! I have been to see Cleone." Philip picked up a nail-polisher and passed it gently across his fingers. "Ah?" "Philip, I am worried." "Yes?" Philip was intent on his nails. "And why?" "I don't understand the child! I could have sworn she was dying for you to return!" Philip glanced up quickly. "That is true?" "I thought so. At home--yes, I am certain of it! But now she seems a changed being." He frowned, looking at his son. Philip was again occupied with his hands. "She is in excellent spirits; she tells me that she enjoys every moment of every day. She was in ecstasies! I spoke of you and she was quite indifferent. What have you done to make her so, Philip?"