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Bancroft—in seclusion.” “I guessed as much. In seclusion, is he? Puppy!”
    Mr Charteris held up his hands.
    “Oh, but Sir Maurice! A mighty soft-spoken youth—a polished gentleman, I assure you.” “Polished coxcomb!” snapped Sir Maurice. “Confound his impudence!” He turned and walked towards the arbour.
    Cleone rose and came forward. “Why, Sir Maurice! I did not see you!” Sir Maurice raised both her hands to his lips.
    “You were otherwise engaged, my dear. Will you present your cavalier?” Cleone frowned upon him.
    “Sir Maurice—! This is Mr Bancroft, sir. Mr Bancroft, Sir Maurice Jettan.” Mr Bancroft’s hat swept the ground. His powdered head was bent. “I am delighted to renew my acquaintance with you, sir.” Sir Maurice inclined his head.
    “I hear you intend to honour Fittledean for some—weeks?” he said. An inward laugh seemed to shake him. “You must meet my son, Philip.”
    “Nothing could give me more pleasure,” Bancroft assured him. “I shall hope to do so at once. I am transported to meet such old friends, and to find that one”—he bowed to Cleone—“had not forgot me.”
    “H’m!” said Sir Maurice cryptically. Suddenly he smiled upon the younger man. “I have ridden over to beg Mr Charteris to honour me at dinner on Wednesday—” “Delighted, delighted!” nodded Charteris, who had joined them.
    “—with madam and Cleone. You’ll come, my dear? I have already spoken to your mamma.” Cleone slipped her hand in his arm.
    “Why, it’s very kind of you, Sir Maurice. Thank you very much.” He patted the little hand. Then he again transferred his attention to Mr Bancroft. “I trust you too will honour us, sir?”
    “It is prodigious amiable of you, sir. I hasten to accept. On Wednesday, I think you said? With all the pleasure on earth!”
    “Cleone, my dear, give me your arm as far as that rose bush. You shall choose me a buttonhole, if you will. No, no, Charteris, with her own fair fingers!” He bore Cleone away to the other end of the garden, leaving Mr Bancroft disconsolate. When they were out of hearing Sir Maurice looked down into the roguish blue eyes. “My dear, you are a minx.” Cleone dimpled charmingly.
    “I don’t know why you should say so, sir.”
    “Of course not,” agreed Sir Maurice. “Now what is the game? It’s to make Philip jealous, eh?”
    “Sir! How can you?”
    “My love, I know all about you, for I am an old man. Make Philip jealous by all means.” “I’m sure I never—”
    “Of course not. But I think, with you, that it would be a very good plan. The boy is too stolid and cocksure,”
    “Cock—Oh, indeed!”
    “So if you shake Philip up from his toes to his head—you’ll earn a father’s blessing.” Cleone controlled a trembling lip.
    “Sir—you are—a very naughty—conspirator.”
    “We’ll leave it at that,” said Sir Maurice. “Now choose me a rose, little witch. Gad, if I were ten years younger I’d make Philip jealous myself!”
    Cleone tiptoed, her hands on his shoulders. “You are very, very wicked,” she told him gravely. Sir Maurice kissed her.
    “So are you, minx, and I want you for my daughter. We are so well suited.” Cleone blushed fiery red and hid her face in his coat.
    Sir Maurice rode home wrapped in thought. Now and again he chuckled softly to himself, but when later he met his son he was as solemn as ever.
    Philip came into the library, riding-whip in hand. He had been on the fields all the morning, and Sir Maurice eyed his boots with disfavour. Philip sank into a chair. “Two of the big meadows are cut, sir. We should finish by next week.” He glanced anxiously out of the window. “I hope the rain holds off.”
    “Oh, it will,” replied his father placidly.
    “I am not so sure. Last summer the hay was black. Did you—er—did you ride into the village?”
    “I did.”
    “And—did you go to—Sharley House?” “Ay.”
    “Are they—did they accept?” Philip played