Powder and Patch (13 page)

“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’oeuvre, 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 tomorrow? 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! Tomorrow 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 bedpost. “I hate him, and hate him, and hate him.” Philip was smiling when François disrobed him, a smile that held much of tenderness. “Cela marche,” decided François. “I go to have a mistress.”

Chapter XIII. Sir Maurice Comes to Town

A tall gentleman rang the bell of Mr Thomas Jettan’s house with some vigour. The door was presently opened by the depressed Moggat.

“Where’s your master, Moggat?” demanded the visitor abruptly. Moggat held the door wide.

“In the library, sir. Will you step inside?”

Sir Maurice swept in. He gave his cloak and hat to Moggat and walked to the library door. Moggat watched him somewhat fearfully. It was not often that Sir Maurice showed signs of perturbation.

“By the way—” Sir Maurice paused, looking back. “My baggage follows me.” “Very good, sir.”

Sir Maurice opened the door and disappeared.

Thomas was seated at his desk, but at the sound of the opening door he turned. “Why, Maurry!” He sprang up. “Gad, this is a surprise! How are ye, lad?” He wrung his brother’s hand.

Sir Maurice flung a sheet of paper on to the table. “What the devil’s the meaning of that?” he demanded. “Why the heat?” asked the surprised Thomas. “Read that—that impertinence!” ordered Sir Maurice.

Tom picked up the paper and spread it open. At sight of the writing he smiled. “Oh, Philip!” he remarked.

“Philip? Philip, write me that letter? It’s no more Philip than—than a cock-robin!” Tom sat down.

“Oh, yes it is!” he said. “I recognise his hand. Now don’t tramp up and down like that, Maurry! Sit down!” He glanced down the sheet and smothered a laugh.

“‘My very dear Papa,’ he read aloud. ‘I do trust that you are enjoying your Customary Good Health and that these fogs and bitter winds have not permeated so far as to Little Fittledean. As you will observe by the above written address, I have returned to this most barbarous land. For how long I shall allow myself to be persuaded to remain I cannot tell you, but after

the affinity of Paris and the charm of the Parisians, London is quite insupportable. But for the present I remain, malgré tout. You will forgive me, I know, that I do not come to visit you at the Pride. The mere thought of the country at this season fills me with incalculable dismay. So I suggest, dear Father, that you honour me by enlivening with your presence this house that I have acquired from Sir Humphrey Grandcourt. Some small entertainment I can promise you, and my friends assure me that the culinary efforts of my chef are beyond compare. An exaggeration, believe me, which one who has tasted the wonders of a Paris cuisine will easily descry. I have to convey to you the compliments of M. de Chateau-Banvau and others. I would write more but that I am in labour with an ode, Believe me, Dear Father, thy most devoted, humble, and obedient son,—philippe.’”

Tom folded the paper. “Very proper,” he remarked. “What’s amiss?” Sir Maurice had stalked to the window. Now he turned.

“What’s amiss? Everything’s amiss! That Philip—my son Philip!—should write me a—an impertinent letter like that! It’s—it’s monstrous!”

“For God’s sake, sit down, Maurry! You’re as bad as Philip himself for restlessness! Now I take this as a very dutiful, filial letter.”

“Dutiful be damned!” snorted Sir Maurice. “Has the boy no other feelings than he shows in that letter? Why did he not come down to see me?”

Tom re-opened the letter.

“The mere thought of the country at this season appalled him. What’s wrong with that? You have said the same.”

“I? I? What matters it what I should have said? I thought Philip cared for me! He trusts I will enliven his house with my presence! I’m more like to break my stick across his back!” “Not a whit,” said Tom, cheerfully. “You sent Philip away to acquire polish, and I don’t know what besides. He has obeyed you. Is it likely that, being what he now is, he’ll fly back to the country? What’s the matter with you, Maurice? Are you grumbling because he has obeyed your behests?”

Sir Maurice sank on to the couch. “If you but knew how I have missed him and longed for him,” he began, and checked himself. “I am well served,” he said bitterly. “I should have been content to have him as he was.”

“So I thought at the time, but I’ve changed my opinion.”

“I cannot bear to think of Philip as being callous, flippant, and—a mere fop!” “’Twould be your own fault if he were,” said Tom severely. “But he’s not. Something inside him has blossomed forth. Philip is now pure joy.”

Sir Maurice grunted.

“It’s true, lad. That letter—oh, ay! He’s a young rascal, but ’twas to avenge his injured feelings, I take it. He was devilish hurt when you and Cleone sent him away betwixt you. He’s still hurt that you should have done it I can’t fathom the workings of his mind, but he assures me they are very complex. He is glad that you sent him, but he wants you to be sorry. Or rather, Cleone. The lad is very forgiving to you”—Tom laughed—“but that letter is a spice of devilry—he has plenty of it, I warn you! He hoped you’d be as angry as you are and wish your work undone. There’s no lack of affection.”

Sir Maurice looked up. “He’s—the same Philip?”

“Never think it; in a way he’s the same, but there’s more of him—ay, and a score of affectations. In about ten minutes”—he glanced at the clock—“he’ll be here. So you’ll see for yourself.”

Sir Maurice straightened himself. He sighed. “An old fool, eh, Tom? But it cut me to the quick, that letter.”

“Of course it did, the young devil! Oh, Maurry, Maurry, ye never saw the like of our Philip!” “Is he so remarkable? I heard about that absurd duel, as I told you. There’ll be a reckoning between him and Cleone.”

“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 Chateau-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 crépin, 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 not 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?”

“Not now. But when I received this—very.” Sir Maurice held out the sheet of paper. “That! Bah!” Philip sent it whirling into the fire. “For that I apologise. If you had not been hurt—oh, heaven knows what I should have done! Where is your baggage, Father?” “Here by now.”

“Here? But no, no! It must go to Curzon Street!”

“My dear son, I thank you very much, but an old man is better with an old man.” Tom wheeled round.

“What’s that? Who are you calling an old man, Maurry? I’m as young as ever I was!” “In any case, it is to Curzon Street that you come, Father.”

“As often as you wish, dear boy, but I’ll stay with Tom.” Then, as Philip prepared to argue the point, “No, Philip, my mind is made up. Sit down and tell me the tale of your ridiculous duel with Bancroft.”

“Oh, that!” Philip laughed. “It was amusing, but scandalous. My sympathies were with my adversary.”

“And what was the ode you threatened to read?”

“An ode to importunate friends, especially composed for the occasion. They took it from me—Paul and Louis—oh, and Henri de Chatelin! They do not like my verse.” Sir Maurice lay back in his seat and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks. “Gad, Philip, but I wish I’d been there! To hear you declaim an ode of your own making! Faith, is it really my blunt, brusque, impossible Philip?”

“Not at all! It is your elegant, smooth, and wholly possible Philip!” Sir Maurice sat up again.

“Ah! And does this Philip contemplate marriage?” “That,” said his son, “is on the knees of the gods.” “I see. Is it woe unto him who seeks to interfere?” “Parfaitement!” bowed Philip. “I play now—a little game.” “And Cleone?”

“Cleone ... I don’t know. It is what I wish to find out. Lady Malmerstoke stands my friend.” “Trust Sally,” said Tom.

Philip’s eyes sparkled.

“Ah, Tom, Tom, art a rogue! Father, he is in love with her ladyship!” “He always has been,” answered Sir Maurice. “Even before old Malmerstoke died.” Tom cleared his throat.

“Then why do you not wed her?” demanded Philip.

“She will not. Now she says—perhaps. We are very good friends,” he added contentedly. “I doubt neither of us is at the age when one loves with heat.”