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in pink?” inquired the Comte, when they were out of earshot.
    “A creature of no importance,” shrugged Philip. “So I see. Yet he contrives to arouse your anger? “Yes,” admitted Philip. “I do not like the colour of his coat.”
    “You may call upon me,” said Saint-Dantin at once. “I do not like anything about him. He was here before—last year. His conversation lacks finesse. He is tolerated in London, hein?” “I don’t know. I trust not.”
    “He, he! So he interfered between you and the lady?” Philip withdrew his arm.
    “Saint-Dantin!”
    “Oh, yes, yes, I know! We all know that in the background lurks—a lady! Else why your so chaste and cold demeanour?”
    “Am I cold?”
    “At the bottom, yes. Is it not so?”
    “Certainly it is so. It’s unfashionable to possess a heart.” “Oh, Philippe, thou art a rogue.”
    “So I have been told. Presumably because I am innocent of the slightest indiscretion. Curious. No one dubs you rogue who so fully merit the title. But I, whose reputation is spotless, am necessarily a wicked one and a deceiver. I shall write a sonnet on the subject.” “Ah, no!” begged Saint-Dantin in alarm. “Your sonnets are vile, Philippe! So let us have no more verse from you, I pray!! All else you can do, but sacré nom de Dieu, your verse—!” “Alas!” sighed Philip, “’tis my only ambition. I shall persevere.”
    Saint-Dantin paused, a hand on the curtain that shut off the cardroom. “Your only ambition, Philippe?”
    “For the moment,” answered Philip sweetly. “All things pall on one after a time.” “Save the greatest ambition?” Saint-Dantin’s eyes were purely mischievous. “You are as inquisitive as a monkey,” said Philip, and propelled him into the card-room. *    *    *    *    *    *    *
    “For how long has that fellow lorded it here?” asked Bancroft of his friend. M. de Chambert flicked one great cuff with his handkerchief, “Oh, some months! He is refreshing, is it not so? So young, so lovable.” “Lovable be damned!” said Bancroft.
    De Chambert looked at him in surprise. “You don’t like our little Philippe?” “No, I do not. Conceited young upstart!”
    “Con—ah, but no! You misunderstand him! He pretends, and it is very amusing, but he is not conceited; he is just a bébé”
    “Damn it, is he everyone’s pet?”
    “C’est le dernier cri de Paris. There are some who are jealous, naturally, but all who know him like him too much to be jealous.”
    “Jealous,” Bancroft snorted. “Jealous of that sprig!” De Chambert cast him a shrewd glance.
    “A word is your ear, m’sieur! Do not speak your dislike too widely. Le petit Philippe has powerful friends. You will be frowned upon if you sneer at him.”
    Bancroft struggled for words.
    “I’ll—not conceal from you, De Chambert, that I’ve a grudge against your little Philippe. I punished him once before for impudence.”
    “Aha? I don’t think you were well advised to do so again. He would have no lack of friends, and with a smallsword he is a veritable devil. It would not be wise to show your enmity, for you will meet him everywhere, and he is the ladies’ darling. That says much, hein?” “And when I saw him last,” spluttered Bancroft, “he was clad in a coat I’d not give a lackey, and had as much conversation as a scarecrow!”
    “Yes? I heard some talk of that. He is a marvel, our Philippe.” “Curse all marvels!” said Bancroft fervently.
     
    Chapter VIII. In which Philip Delivers himself of a Rondeau
     
    M. le Comte de Saint-Dantin gave a select dinner and card party some few weeks after the coming of Mr Bancroft. Only his chosen intimates were invited, and amongst them was Philip. At half past five all the guests, save one, were assembled in the library, and Saint-Dantin was comparing his chronometer with the clock on the mantelpiece. “Now what comes to Philippe?” he inquired of no one in particular. “Where is the