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society, and frivolity. She weighed the question carefully, a little too carefully for a maid in love. She wanted Philip and she did not want him. As he was, she would have none of him; as she wished him to be, he might have her. But for the present she was no man’s, and no man had the right to chide her. Philip had made a mistake in his wooing in showing her how much his own he thought her. All unwitting, he was paving the way to his own downfall.
    Despite the lisping conceit of Mr Bancroft, his polished phrases and his elegancy when compared with Philip’s brusqueness threw Philip in the shade. Mr Bancroft could taunt and gibe at Philip, sure of triumph; Philip tied his tongue in knots and relapsed into silence, leaving Mr Bancroft to shine in his victory. The man Cleone chose to wed must be a match for all, with words or swords. Cleone continued to smile upon Mr Bancroft. At the end of the week the trouble came to a head. In the garden of Sharley House, before Cleone, Mr Bancroft threw veiled taunts at Philip, and very thinly veiled sneers. He continued to hold the younger man’s lack of polish up to scorn, always smiling and urbane. Cleone recognised the gleam in Philip’s eye. She was a little frightened and sought to smooth over the breach. But when she presently retired to the house, Philip arrested Mr Bancroft, who was following.
    “A word with you, sir.”
    Bancroft turned, brows raised, lips curled almost sneeringly. Philip stood very straight, shoulders squared. “You have seen fit to mock at me, sir—” “I?” interpolated Bancroft languidly. “My dear sir!” “—and I resent it. There is that in your manner to which I object.” Bancroft’s brows rose higher.
    “To—which—you—object ...” he echoed softly.
    “I trust I make myself clear?” snapped Philip.
    Bancroft raised his eyeglass. Through it he studied Philip from his toes to his head. “Is it possible that you want satisfaction?” he drawled.
    “More than that,” retorted Philip. “It is certain.” Once again he was scrutinised. Mr Bancroft’s smile grew. “I do not fight with schoolboys,” he said.
    The colour flooded Philip’s face.
    “Perhaps because you are afraid,” he said quickly, guarding his temper. “Perhaps,” nodded Bancroft. “Yet I have not the reputation of a coward.” Swift as a hawk Philip pounced.
    “You have, sir, as I well know, the reputation of a libertine!” It was Bancroft’s turn to flush.
    “I—beg—your—pardon?”
    “It is necessary,” bowed Philip, enjoying himself now for the first time in many days. “You—impudent boy!” gasped Bancroft
    “I would sooner be that, sir, than an impudent, painted puppy.” Under his powder Bancroft was fiery red.
    “I see you will have it, Mr Jettan. I will meet you when and where you will.” Philip patted his sword-hilt, and Bancroft observed for the first time that he was wearing a sword. “I have noticed, Mr Bancroft, that you habitually don your sword. So I took the precaution of wearing mine. ‘When’ is now, and ‘where’ is yonder!” He pointed above the hedge that encircled the garden to the copse beyond. It was a very fine theatrical effect, and he was pleased with it
    Bancroft sneered at him.
    “A trifle countrified, Mr Jettan. Do you propose to dispense with such needless formalities as seconds?”
    “I think we can trust each other,” said Philip grandly. “Then pray lead the way,” bowed Bancroft.
    What followed was not so fine. Bancroft was proficient in the art of the duello; Philip had never fought in his life. Fencing had never interested him, and Sir Maurice had long since despaired of teaching him anything more than the rudiments. However, he was very angry and very reckless, while Bancroft thought to play with him. He thrust so wildly and so insanely that Bancroft was taken unawares and received a fine slash across the arm. After that he fenced more carefully, and in a very short time pinked Philip neatly and