Once more Lady Malmerstoke's page went up to the boudoir. "Mistah Philip Jettan is below, m'lady!"
Up started Cleone.
"I will not see him! Aunt Sarah, I beg you will go to him! Please spare me this—humiliation!"
Lady Malmerstoke waved her aside.
"Admit him, Sambo. Yes, here. Cleone, control yourself!"
"I can't see him! I can't! I can't! How can I face him?"
"Turn your back, then," said her unsympathetic aunt. "I wonder what he has done?"
"D-do you think he—could have—arranged everything?" asked Cleone, with a gleam of hope.
"From what I have seen of him, I should say yes. A masterful young man, my dear. Else why that chin?" She moved to the door. Philip came in, immaculate as ever. "Ah, Philip!"
Philip shot a look past her. Cleone had fled to the window. He bent and kissed Lady Malmerstoke's hand.
"Bonjour, madame!" He held open the door and bowed.
Her ladyship laughed.
"What! Turning me from my own boudoir?"
"If you please, madame."
"Aunt—Sarah!" The whisper came from the window.
Philip smiled faintly.
"Madame...."
"Oh, that chin!" said her ladyship, and patted it. She went out and Philip closed the door behind her.
Cleone's fingers clasped one another desperately. Her heart seemed to have jumped into her throat. It almost choked her. She dared not look round. She heard the rustle of Philip's coat-skirts. Never, never had she felt so ashamed, or so frightened.
"Your devoted servant, mademoiselle!"
Cleone could not speak. She stood where she was, trembling uncontrollably.
"I have the honour of informing you, mademoiselle, that you are released from your engagements."
Was there a note of laughter in the prim voice?
"I—thank you—sir," whispered Cleone. Her teeth clenched in an effort to keep back the tears. She was blinded by them, and her bosom was heaving.
There was a slight pause. Why did he not go? Did he wish to see her still more humiliated?
"I have also to offer, on Sir Deryk's behalf, his apologies for the happenings of last night, mademoiselle."
"Th—thank—you, sir."
Again the nerve-killing silence. If only he would go before she broke down!
"Cleone...." said Philip gently.
The tears were running down her cheeks, but she kept her head turned away.
"Please—go!" she begged huskily.
He was coming across the room towards her.... Cleone gripped her hands.
"Cleone ... dearest!"
A heartbroken sob betrayed her. Philip took her in his arms.
"My sweetheart! Crying? Oh no, no! There is naught now to distress you."
The feel of his arms about her was sheer bliss; their strength was like a haven of refuge. Yet Cleone tried to thrust him away.
"What—must you—think of me!" she sobbed.
He drew her closer, till her head rested against his shoulder.
"Why, that you are a dear, foolish, naughty little Cleone. Chérie, don't cry. It is only your Philip—your own Philip, who has always loved you, and only you. Look up, my darling, look up!"
Cleone gave way to the insistence of his arms.
"Oh, Philip—forgive me!" she wept. "I have—been mad!" She raised her head and Philips arms tightened still more. He bent over her and kissed her parted lips almost fiercely.
Later, seated beside him on the couch, her head on his shoulder, and his arm about her, Cleone gave a great sigh.
"But why—why did you treat me so—hatefully&md............