"Not a soul. He insisted on guarding the secret until he could make a really dramatic appearance at the Duchesse de Sauverin's ball to-night. He is mad, you know, quite mad! Oh, here he is!" Philip came into the room with a rustle of stiff silks. Sir Maurice started at him. "Good God, Philip, what audacity!" From head to foot his son was clad in white. The only splash of colour was the red heels of his shoes; his only jewels were pearls and diamonds; on the lapel of his coat he wore a single white rose. "Isn't it ridiculous?" said Cleone. "But doesn't he look beautiful?" "Stand up, child, and let me see you side by side.... Yes. What audacity! Had I known, I would have attired myself in black--the old man at the ball." "'Twould have made an excellent foil," agreed Philip. "But no matter. Cleone, you have re-arranged your roses!" Cleone backed, warding him off. "I cry your pardon, sir! Oh no, let me be!" Philip came to her, and with deft fingers pulled the flowers into position. "One of them must kiss your skin, so! To show that it is no whiter than the skin. _Voilà, c'est bien!_" "Who is likely to be at the ball to-night, Philip?" asked his father. "_Tout le monde._ One always goes to Madame de Sauverin's balls. It is de rigueur." "We shall be late!" warned Cleone. "Oh, we are late now!" "That is also de rigueur," said Philip. "Sir Maurice, _M'sieu', et Madame Jettan_!" announced the lackey. There was a sudden hush. All eyes turned to the late-comers. In the doorway stood a tall gentleman, at his side two dazzling visions in white. Madame de Sauverin stared for a moment in wonderment. Then she hurried forward, hands outstretched. "Philippe!" "Philippe! _Le petit_ Philippe!" A score of voices took up the cry. Nearly everyone there surged forward. Philip kissed Madame's hand. "_Chère madame!_ I may present my wife? My father you know." Cleone curtseyed low. "Your--wife!" Madame took Cleone's hands. "_Voyons, voyons, notre petit Philippe s'est_ éspousé! _Et Maurice!_" Philip and Cleone were at the centre of a welcoming throng. Cleone's hand was kissed a dozen times. Delighted questions were shot at Philip. Saint-Dantin grasped his hand. "_Mon cher petit!_ You have returned at last? _Et madame!_" He bowed to the blushing Cleone. "There is no need to ask who is, _madame_." He smiled at her. "It is evident that her name is Cleone!" De Vangrisse pressed forward. "The mysterious Cleone! _Madame, votre serviteur!_ We have all longed to see the lady who so consistently held Philip's heart!" "Philippe, how long have you been in Paris?" demanded De Chatelin. "You are going to remain? _Ah bon!_" "Philippe, have you an ode for the occasion?" asked another laughing voice. Clothilde de Chaucheron pushed through the ring. "_Le petit Philippe au c[oe]ur perdu!_" she cried. Philip disengaged himself from the clutches of Saint-Dantin and took his wife's hand. "_Mademoiselle de Chaucheron, chérie_," he said, and bowed.