Thomas, deep in the latest copy of the Rambler, was aroused by the sound of wheels drawing up outside the house. He rose and stretched himself, wondering who could choose such a day wherein to visit him. He strolled to the window and peered out into the foggy street. He was surprised to see, not a light town-chariot, but a large travelling coach, top-heavy with baggage, and drawn by four steaming horses. As he watched, the door of the vehicle was thrown open and a slight gentleman sprang out, not waiting for the steps to be let down. He was muffled in a many-caped overcoat of Parisian cut, and shining leather boots were on his feet. Tom was puzzled. Then, from out the coach, issued two other men, evidently servants, the one small and wiry, the other lank and cadaverous. Both seemed depressed. The man in the well-cut cloak waved his hands at them and appeared to shoot forth a number of instructions. The little man, scarcely visible beneath the bandboxes that he carried, nodded, shivered, and rounded on the lean man. Then the man in the cloak turned, and ran up the steps to Tom's front door. A long bell-peal sounded through the house. Tom walked to the fire and stood with his back to it. Possibly this was his friend Mainwaring come to visit him, but why did he bring so much baggage? Tom rather hoped that the unknown guest had come to his house in mistake for another's.
But a quick tread came across the hall and the door of the library was swept open. Hat in hand, the visitor stood before Tom, bowing.
"Revered uncle, I kiss your hands!" And he proceeded to do so.
"God ha' mercy, it's Philip!" gasped Tom. "I never expected you for another week, lad!"
Philip tossed his hat and gloves on to the table and wriggled out of his cloak.
"I am de trop, no?"
"Never in your life!" Tom assured him. "Stand up, child, and let me look at you!" Then, as Philip clicked his heels together and faced him, laughing, his eyes widened, and his lips formed a soundless whistle. "By the Lord Harry, Philip, it's marvellous! How could you do it in six months——!"
Philip rustled over to the fire and stooped, warming his hands.
"Fog, cold, damp! Brrh! The unspeakable climate! Tom, it is permitted that I stay with you until I find an abode?"
With difficulty his uncle withdrew his gape from Philip's claret-coloured coat of fine cloth, laced with gold.
"Can you ask? Stay as long as you will, lad, you're a joy to behold!"
"Merci du compliment!" smiled Philip. "You perhaps admire the mixture of claret and biscuit as I wear it?"
Tom's eyes travelled down to the creaseless biscuit-coloured small-clothes.
"Ay. I admire everything. The boots most of all. The boots—Philip, where did you obtain them?"
Philip glanced carelessly down at his shapely leg.
"They were made for me. Me, I am not satisfied with them. I shall give them to Fran?ois."
"Give them to Fran?ois?" cried his uncle. "Ye wicked boy! Where is the fellow?"
"He and Jacques are struggling with my baggage and Moggat." He stretched out a detaining hand as Tom started forward to the door. "Ah, do not disturb yourself. I have spoken with ce bon Moggat, and all is well. He will arrange everything."
Tom came back.
"He will be in a frenzy, Philip! All that baggage!"
"All—that baggage?" Philip spoke with uplifted brows. "It has arrived?" He went to the window and looked out. "But no, not yet."
"B—but—is there more to come?" asked Tom.
"But of course! The bulk follows me."
Tom sat down weakly.
"And you who six months ago thought yourself rich in the possession of three coats."
Philip came back to the fire. He made a little grimace of distaste.
"Those far-off days! That is ended—completely!"
Tom cast him a shrewd glance.
"What, all of it? Cleone?"
"Ah!" Philip smiled. "That is—another—matter. I have to thank you for your letter, Tom."
"It brought you back?"
"En partie. She is here?"
"Ay, with Sally Malmerstoke. She is already noticed. Sally takes her everywhere. She is now looked for—and courted." His eyes twinkled.
"Oho!" said Philip. He poured out a glass of burgundy from the decanter that stood on a small table. "So she is furious with me, yes?"
"So I believe. Satterthwaite wrote that you and Bancroft fought over the fair name of some French lass. Did you?"
Philip sipped his wine.
"Not a whit. 'Twas her own fair name, à vrai dire."
"Oh! You'll tell her that, of course?"
"Not at all."
Tom stared.
"What then? Have you some deep game in mind, Philip?"
"Perhaps. Oh, I don't know! I thank her for reforming me, but, being human, I am hurt and angry! Le petit Philippe se fache," he said, smiling suddenly. "He would see whether it is himself she loves, or—a painted puppet. It's foolish, but what would you?"
"So you are now a painted puppet?" said Tom politely.
"What else?"
"Dear me!" said Tom, and relapsed into profound meditation.
"I want to have her love me for—myself, and not for my clothes, or my airs and graces. It's incomprehensible?"
"Not entirely," answered Tom. "I understand your feelings. What's to do?"
"Merely my baggage," said Philip, with another glance towards the window. "It is the coach that you hear."
"No, not that." Tom listened. Voices raised in altercation sounded in the hall.
Philip laughed.
"That is the inimitable Fran?ois. I do not think that Moggat finds favour in his eyes."
"I'll swear he does not find favour in Moggat's eyes! Who is the other one?"
"Jacques, my groom and homme à tout faire!"
"Faith, ye've a retinue!"
"What would you?" shrugged Philip. He sat down opposite his uncle, and stretched his legs to the fire. "Heigh-ho! I do not like this weather."
"Nor anyone else. What are you going to do, now that you have returned?"
"Who knows? I make my bow to London Society, I amuse myself a little—ah yes! and I procure a house."
"Do you make your bow to Cleone?"
An impish smile danced into Philip's eyes.
"I present myself to Cleone—as she would have had me. A drawling, conceited, and mincing fop. Which I am not, believe me!"
Tom considered him.
"No, you're not. You don't drawl."
"I shall drawl," promised Philip. "And I shall be very languid."
"It's the fashion, of course. You did not adopt it?"
"It did not entice me. I am le petit sans repos, and le petit Philippe au C?ur Perdu, and petit original. Hé, hé, I shall be homesick! It is inevitable."
"Are you so much at home in Paris?" asked Tom, rather surprised. "You liked the Frenchies?"
"Liked them! Could I have disliked them?"
"I should have thought it possible—for you. Did you make many friends?"
"A revendre! They took me to their bosoms."
"Did they indeed! Who do you count amongst your intimates?"
"Saint-Dantin—you know him?"
"I've met him. Tall and dark?"
"Ay. Paul de Vangrisse, Jules de Bergeret, Henri de Chatelin—oh, I can't tell you! They are all charming!"
"And the ladies?"
"Also charming. Did you ever meet Clothilde de Chaucheron, or Julie de Marcherand? Ah, voilà ce qui fait ressouvenir! I count that rondeau one of my most successful efforts. You shall hear it some time or other."
"That what?" ejaculated Tom, sitting upright in his surprise.
"A rondeau: 'To the Pearl that Trembles in her Ear.' I would you could have seen it."
"Which? The rondeau?"
"The pearl, man! The rondeau you shall most assuredly see."
"Merciful heaven!" gasped Tom. "A rondeau! Philip—poet! Sacr-ré mille petits cochons!"
"Monsieur dines at home this evening?" asked Fran?ois.
Philip sat at his dressing-table, busy with many pots and his face. He nodded.
"The uncle of Monsieur receives, without doubt?"
"A card-party," said Philip, tracing his eyebrows with a careful hand.
Fran?ois skipped to the wardrobe and flung it open. With a finger to his nose he meditated aloud.
"The blue and silver ... un peu trop soigné. The oran............