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Bancroft!” Instantly he swept round.
    “I thank you for the past tense, Mistress Cleone! At least, I am no longer so aged.” “Why, sir, have you lost your years?” she asked.
    “In your company, yes, madam. Can you wonder?”
    “Oh, I am monstrous flattered, sir!” Cleone spread out her fan and held it before her face. “Not flattered, Mistress Cleone; justly appreciated.”
    “La!” said Madam Charteris. “How can you say such things, Mr Bancroft? I declare you will make my daughter vain!”
    “Vanity, madam, mates not with such beauty as that of your daughter,” he retaliated. To the right he could see Philip, glowering, and his mischievous soul laughed. Then Sir Maurice claimed his attention, and he turned away.
    Philip walked to the couch and stood behind it, resting his arm on the back. He leaned over Cleone with an air of possession.
    “Pranked out mummer!” he muttered in her ear. Cleone smiled up at him.
    “Why, sir, are you at variance with him in the matter of my looks?” she asked, and thereby bereft him of speech. Her smile turned to a look of reproach. “’Tis your cue, sir; am I to be slighted?”
    A dull red crept to the roots of Philip’s hair. He spoke lower still.
    “You know—what I think of you, Cleone. I cannot—mouth what I feel—in pretty phrases.” A strangely tender light came into her eyes.
    “You might try, Philip,” she said.
    “What, here? Not I! I am not one to sing your charms in public.” He laughed shortly. “So that is what you desire?”
    The tender light died.
    “No, sir. I desire you will not lean so close. You inconvenience me.” Philip straightened at once, but he still stood behind her. Bancroft met his eyes and was quick to read the challenge they held. He smiled, twirling his eyeglass. When dinner was announced, Cleone was talking to Bancroft. It was but natural that he should offer her his arm, but to Philip it seemed a most officious, impudent action. Sir Maurice led Madam Charteris into the dining-room; Mr Charteris and Philip brought up the rear.
    From Philip’s point of view the meal was not a success. Seated side by side, Cleone and Bancroft exchanged a flood of conversation. Philip, at the foot of the table, had on his right Mr Bancroft, and on his left Mr Charteris. To the latter he made grave conversation. Occasionally Bancroft dragged him into a discussion; once or twice Madam Charteris and Sir Maurice appealed to him. But Cleone seemed unaware of his existence. She was very
    gay, too; her eyes sparkled and shone, her cheeks were faintly flushed. She answered Mr Bancroft’s sallies with delightful little laughs and applause.
    As the dinner proceeded, Philip was made to feel more than ever his own shortcomings. When he looked at Mr Bancroft’s white hands with their highly polished nails, and many rings, he compared them with his strong brown ones, tanned and—coarse? Covertly he inspected them; no, they were better hands than that nincompoop’s, but his nails ... bah! only fops such as this puppy polished their nails!
    The lilac satin of Mr Bancroft’s coat shimmered in the light of the candles. How tightly it fitted him across the shoulders! How heavily it was laced, and how full were its skirts! A coat for a drawing-room! Unconsciously Philip squared his shoulders. All that foaming lace ... more suited to a woman than a man. The quizzing-glass ... abominable affectation! The jewels ... flaunting them in the country! Patched and painted, mincing, prattling puppy-dog! How could Cleone bear him so near, with his fat, soft hands, and his person reeking of some sickly scent? ...
    Now he was talking of town and its allure, toying with the names of first one celebrity and then another. And Cleone drinking in the silly, smug talk! ... Now hints at conquests made—veiled allusions to his own charms. Ape!—truckling, over-dressed ape! Suddenly Philip wanted to throw his glass at Bancroft. He choked down the mad impulse, and strove to listen