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with his whip, feigning unconcern. “They did. I met that fellow Bancroft.”
    “Oh!” said Philip. “Where?”
    “In the rose garden,” yawned Sir Maurice. The whip fell to the ground.
    “What? In the rose garden? Whose rose garden?” “At Sharley House, of course.”
    “Where—was—What was he doing there?” “He was sitting in the arbour, talking to Cleone.”
    “Confound him!” growled Philip, as if his worst fears were realised. “What’s he like?” Sir Maurice glanced across at him.
    “He is about your height—perhaps a little taller. He—ah—seems to have a soft tongue and an engaging manner.”
    “Oh, has he?” Philip’s voice was startlingly grim. “He and Cleone were renewing their old friendship.” “Oh, were they? What old friendship? He was never our friend!”
    “No, I suppose not,” said Sir Maurice innocently. “He is some six or seven years older than you, is he not?”
    “Five!” said Philip emphatically.
    “Only five? Of course, he looks and seems older, but he has seen more of the world, which accounts for it.”
    To this Philip vouchsafed no answer at all, but he looked at his father with some suspicion. Sir Maurice allowed two or three minutes to elapse before he spoke again. “By the way, Philip, Bancroft dines with us on Wednesday.” Up sprang Philip in great annoyance.
    “What’s that, sir? Dines here, and on Wednesday? Surely you did not invite the fellow?” “But I did,” answered Sir Maurice blandly. “Why not?”
    “Why not? What do we want with him?”
    “It remains to be seen.” Sir Maurice hid a smile. “Bancroft is most desirous of meeting you.” Philip made a sound betwixt a grunt and a snort.
    “More like he wishes to pursue his acquaintance with Cl—Mistress Cleone,” he retorted. “Well, she’s a pretty piece,” said his father.
    Philip glared at him.
    “If I find him annoying Cleone with his damned officious attentions, I’ll—I’ll—” “Oh, I do not think she is annoyed,” replied Sir Maurice.
    At that Philip stalked out of the room, leaving his father a prey to indecent mirth.
     
    Chapter IV. The Troubles Come to a Head
     
    At half-past five on Wednesday Mr Henry Bancroft was ushered into the withdrawing-room at the Pride. He was, as he had intended he should be, the last to arrive. Sir Maurice stood in front of the empty grate, talking to Mr Charteris; madam sat on a couch, her daughter beside her, and Philip nearby. They all looked up as Mr Bancroft was announced, and Philip rose, for the first time in his life acutely conscious of an ill-fitting coat and un-powdered hair. Mr Bancroft was a dream of lilac and rose. He might have been dressed for a ball, thought Cleone. Diamonds and rubies flashed from his buckles, and from his cravat; a diamond clasp was above the riband that tied his wig. He minced forward daintily and bowed, one be-ringed hand over his heart.
    Sir Maurice came forward, very stately in black with touches of purple. “Ah, Mr Bancroft! I need not present you to the ladies, I know.” He paused to allow Bancroft
    to throw a languishing glance towards the couch. “I think you and my son are not altogether unknown to one another?”
    Bancroft turned on his heel to face Philip. He bowed again, slightly flourishing his handkerchief.
    “My playmate of long ago,” he murmured. “Your very obedient, Mr Jettan.” Philip returned the bow awkwardly.
    “I am very pleased to meet you again, sir,” he said, determined to be polite to this most obnoxious guest. “Do you—er—intend to make a long stay?”
    Bancroft raised his shoulders and spread out his hands.
    “I had thought not, sir, but now”—another glance was cast at Cleone—“I think—perhaps—!” he smiled, running quick, appraising eyes over Philip’s person. “Do you know, sir, I swear I’d not have known you. You have grown prodigiously.”
    Cleone broke into the conversation.
    “You were so much older than Philip, or James or me, Mr