"Jenny? Cleone, for shame! Because I was polite--" "More than that, Philip!" "Well, dearest, no one paid any heed to her or was kind. What would you?" "It was only that? I thought--I thought--" "Cleone, you think too much," he chided her. "Next you will accuse me of loving Ann Nutley!" It was a master-stroke, and he knew it. "You didn't? Not a tiny bit?" "Not an atom!" "And no one--in Paris?" "No one. I have pretended, but they all knew that I had already lost my heart." "You pretended?... Oh!" "One must, sweetest." "But--" He drew her closer. "But never, most beautiful, did I become engaged--twice in one evening!" He stifled the cry that rose to her lips. "Philip, that is ungallant, and--and hateful!" He laughed. "Is it not? Ah, Cleone! Tell me, my dearest, what is in your locket?" "Something I meant to burn," she murmured. "But did not?" "No--I could not." She fumbled at her bosom and drew out the trinket. "See for yourself, Philip." He opened it. A rolled lock of brown hair fell out and a torn scrap of parchment. Philip turned it over. "Yours till death, Philip," he read. "Cleone, my love." She buried her face on his shoulder. "Your--hair--your poor hair!" she said. "All gone! Look up, Cleone!" She lifted her face. He gazed down at her, rapt. "Oh, Cleone--I shall write a sonnet to your wonderful eyes!" he breathed. Twenty Mademoiselle de Chaucheron Rings Down the Curtain Sir Maurice Jettan stood in the withdrawing-room of the Hotel Cleone and studied himself in the glass. He smiled a little and straightened his shoulders. There came a swish of skirts in the passage without, and the door opened. In walked Cleone, a fair vision in a gown of pure white satin and lace. Sir Maurice turned. He raised his quizzing-glass the better to inspect his daughter-in-law. "Upon my soul, Cleone!" he ejaculated. Cleone swept him a curtsey, laughing. "Is it not ridiculous? Philip insisted. Wait till you see him!" She ran to the mirror. "Do you like the way my hair is dressed, father?" "I am struck dumb by the whole effect!" answered Sir Maurice. "Yes, I like that white rose in your hair." "Oh, you must tell Philip that! He spent hours and hours trying to place it to his entire satisfaction! It has been terrible, _je t'assure_. Yes, I am beginning to acquire an accent, am I not? Philip nearly tore his beautiful wig in his anxiety!" She re-arranged the roses at her breast. "At one time I expected him to summon François to his assistance. But he refrained, and here am I!" Sir Maurice sat down. "Has he been dressing you, my dear?"