Fran?ois endured the detestable Moggat for a week. He was then rewarded for his patience by the news that Philip was shortly to move into a small house in Curzon Street, which belonged to a friend of Tom. This gentleman consented to let his house for the space of two months, as he was going abroad for that time. Philip went to inspect the prospective abode, and found it to be furnished in excellent style. He closed with its owner and went back to Half-Moon Street to break the joyful news to Fran?ois. From that moment the excitable valet's spirits soared high. He would manage the affairs of the house for M'sieur; he would find M'sieur a chef. Philip was content to waive responsibility. Fran?ois sallied forth with the air of one about to conquer, to find, so he told Philip, the son of his aunt, a very fair chef and a good gar?on. Philip had no idea that Fran?ois possessed any relations, much less one in London. When he said this, Fran?ois looked very waggish, and admitted that he himself had forgotten the existence of this cousin until the moment when M'sieur told him of the new home. "Then, subitement, I remember, for m'sieur will require a chef is it not so?"
"Assuredly," said Philip. "But your cousin may not wish to take service with me, in which case I shall seek an English cook."
"An English cook? Ah, bah! Is it that I would permit m'sieur to be so ill served? No! M'sieur shall have a French chef, bien s?r. What does an Englishman know of the cuisine? Is m'sieur to be insulted by the tasteless, watery vegetables of such as the wife of Moggat? No! I go to find my cousin!"
"Very well," said Philip.
"And then we have a household bien tenu. It is our poor Jacques who could not support an Englishman in the house."
"I hope I am not to be excluded?" smiled Philip.
"M'sieur se moque de moi! Is it that m'sieur is English? M'sieur is tout comme un Fran?ais." He bustled away, full of importance.
The cousin was forthcoming, a stout, good-tempered soul, who rejoiced in the name of Marie-Guillaume. Fran?ois exhibited him with pride, and he was engaged. That ended all Philip's responsibility. Fran?ois gathered up the reins of government, and in a week they were installed in Curzon Street. Philip had done no more than say that he wished to enter his new abode on Thursday. On Thursday he went out to Ranelagh; when he returned to Half-Moon Street he found that his baggage had gone. He took his leave of Tom, and walked up the road and round the corner, into Curzon Street. His house was as neat as a new pin; his baggage was unpacked; Fran?ois was complacent. They might have lived in the house for months; there was no disorder, no fuss, none of the slow settling down. Fran?ois, Jacques and Marie-Guillaume had fitted into their respective niches in one short hour. Philip was moved to inform Fran?ois that he was a treasure.
That evening he went to a ball given by the Duchess of Queensberry. And there he met Cleone, for the first time since his return to England.
The Duchess welcomed him effusively, for already Philip was a persona grata in Society, and much sought after by hostesses. Tom had lost no time in introducing him to the Fashionable World. The ladies were captivated by his French air, and ogled him shamelessly. Then men found that he was, for all his graces, singularly modest and unaffected at heart, and they extended the hand of friendship towards him. People began to look for him, and to be disappointed if he were absent.
Until now, however, Philip had seen nothing of Cleone, but on all sides he had heard of her. She was, he learned, London's newest beauty.
She was dancing when Philip saw her first, smiling up at her partner with blue eyes that seemed bluer than ever, and lips that lay in a happy curve. Her golden hair was unpowdered and piled in curls upon the top of her head. Philip thought she was more beautiful than ever.
He stood apart, watching her. She had not seen him; she was not even thinking of him; those eyes were clear and joyous. Who was her partner? Brainless-looking fool! Simpering ninny! Ay, that was all she cared for! Philip's hand clenched slowly on his snuff-box.
"Aha, Jettan! You have espied the lovely Cleone?"
Philip turned. Lord Charles Fairfax stood at his elbow.
"Yes," he said.
"But how stern and forbidding!" exclaimed Fairfax. "What ails you?"
Philip's mouth lost its hard line.
"I am struck dumb," he answered gaily. "Can you wonder at it?"
"So are we all. She is very beautiful, is she not?"
"Ravishing!" agreed Philip. He saw Cleone's partner lead her to a chair. "Will you present me?"
"What! And destroy my own chances? We have heard of your killing ways with the fair sex!"
"I protest I have been maligned!" cried Philip. "I do implore your mercy! Present me!"
"Against my will, then!" said his lordship roguishly. He walked forward to where Cleone sat.
"Mistress Cleone, have you no smile for the humblest of your admirers?"
Cleone turned her head.
"Oh, Lord Charles! Give you good even, sir! Do you know you have not been near me the whole evening? I am monstrous hurt, I assure you!"
"Dear lady, how was I to come near you?" protested Fairfax. "Until this moment you have been surrounded."
Cleone gave a happy little laugh.
"I am sure 'tis untrue, sir! You delight in teasing me!" Her eyes wandered past him to Philip.
Fairfax drew him forward.
"Mistress Cleone, may I present one who is newly come from Paris, and is, he swears, struck dumb by your beauty? Mr. Jettan, of whom we all know some naughty tales!"
The colour drained from Cleone's cheeks. She felt faint all at once, and her fingers gripped together over her fan. For one moment she thought she must be mistaken. This was not Philip, this foppish gentleman who stood bowing so profoundly! Heavens, he was speaking! It was Philip! How could she mistake that square chin?
"Mademoiselle, this is a scarce-hoped-for honour," he said. "I have watched and I have hungered. Lord Charles took pity on me, for which I shall never cease to thank him."
Cleone tried to answer, and failed. Dazedly she stared at him, from the powdered curls of his wig to the diamond buckles on his shoes. Philip! Philip! Philip in stiff silks and laces! Philip patched and painted! Philip with jewels scattered about his person, and polished nails! Was she dreaming? This foppish gentleman her blunt Philip? It was incredible, impossible! What was he saying now?
"I little thought to find you here, mademoiselle! You are with Madame Charteris, no doubt?"
Cleone collected her scattered wits. An awful numbness was stealing over her.
"No, I—I am with my aunt, Lady Malmerstoke," she answered.
"Lady Malmerstoke?..." Philip raised his quizzing-glass with one delicate white hand, and through it scanned the room. "Ah yes, the lady in the apple-green toilette! I remember her well, that lady."
"Oh—do you—do you know her?" asked Cleone. She could not drag her eyes from his face.
"I had the felicity of meeting her some nights ago. I forget where."
"R—really?" Cleone decided that this was a nightmare.
Philip sat down beside her.
"You have been long in town, mademoiselle? You find all this very fatiguing, no doubt?" He waved a languid hand.
Indignation was dispersing the numbness. How dared Philip drawl at her like this? How dared he behave as though they were strangers?
"I have been in London nigh on a month. I do not............