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 piece 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............