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 bed-post. "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."
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.
"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."
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.
"Philip? Philip write me that letter? It's no more Philip than--than a cock-robin!"
"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 Château-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?"