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to Mr Charteris.
    Back in the withdrawing-room again it was worse. Sir Maurice asked Cleone to sing, and she went to the spinet. Bancroft followed, to choose her music, to turn the pages, to gaze at her in frank admiration. Damn him, damn him, damn him!
    The party came to an end at last; Philip was alone with his father. Sir Maurice leaned his chin in his hand, watching him amusedly. For a long while Philip said nothing, but presently he brought his eyes away from the window, and looked at his father. “And that,” he said bitingly, “is what you would have me. A conceited, painted puppy, fawning and leering on every woman that crosses his path!”
    “Not at all.” Sir Maurice took out his snuff-box and opened it. “’Tis the last thing in the world I would have you.”
    “You said—”
    “I said I would have you a very perfect gentleman, knowing the world and its ways.” “Well?—”
    “You perhaps conceive Mr Bancroft a perfect gentleman?” “Not I! Tis you who—”
    Sir Maurice raised one delicate hand.
    “Pardon me! You choose to assume that I thought it. Mr Bancroft is, as you so truly remark, a conceited, painted puppet. But he apes, so far as he is able, the thing that I am; that I wish you to become. You are a country-bumpkin, my dear; he is a coddled doll. Strive to become something betwixt the two.”
    “I had sooner be what I am!” “Which is a conceited oaf.” “Sir!”
    Sir Maurice rose, leaning on his cane.
    “Remain what you are, my son, but bethink you—which will Cleone prefer? Him who gives her graceful homage, and charms her ears with honeyed words, or him who is tongue-tied before her, who is careless of his appearance, and who treats her, not as a young and beautiful girl, but as his inevitable possession?”
    Philip answered quickly.
    “Cleone, sir, will—give herself where she pleases, but she is not one to over-rate the tricks of such as Bancroft.”
    “Or to under-rate the discomforts of tying herself to one who is tied to the soil and his own pleasure,” said Sir Maurice softly.
    The grey eyes met his, a trifle hurt.
    “I am selfish, Father? Because I will not become the thing I despise?” “And narrow, Philip, to despise what you do not know.”
    “Thank you!” The young voice was exceedingly bitter. “I am to be a painted popinjay! I tell you, sir, Cleone must take me as I am.”
    “Or leave you as you are,” said Sir Maurice gently. “A warning, sir?”
    “That’s for you to judge, child. And now I’ll to bed.” He paused, looking at his son. Philip went to him.
    “Goodnight, sir.”
    Sir Maurice smiled, holding out his hand. “Goodnight, my son.”
    Philip kissed his fingers.
    Followed a week of disturbing trivialities. Mr Bancroft was more often in Little Fittledean than at home, and most often at Sharley House. He there met Philip, not once, but many times, hostile and possessive. He laughed softly and sought to engage Philip in a war of wits, but Philip’s tongue was stiff and reluctant So Mr Bancroft made covert sport of him and renewed his attentions to Cleone.
    Cleone herself was living in a strange whirl. There was much in Mr Bancroft that displeased her: I do not think she ever had it in her mind to wed him, which was perhaps fortunate, as Mr Bancroft certainly had it not in his. But homage is grateful to women, and ardent yet dainty love-making fascinating to the young. She played with Mr Bancroft, but thought no less of Philip. Yet Philip contrived to irritate her. His air of ownership, his angry, reproachful looks, fired the spirit of coquetry within her. Mastery thrilled her, but a mastery that offered to take all, giving nothing, annoyed her. That Philip loved her to distraction, she knew; also she knew that Philip would expect her to bend before his will. He would not change, it would be she who must conform to his pleasure. Philip was determined to remain as he was, faithful but dull. She wanted all that he despised: life, gaiety,