"Mr. Bancroft," said Cleone. A smile trembled on her lips. "It seems that Mr. Bancroft has had occasion to fight a duel. Is it not too dreadful?"

Philip agreed with more heartiness than he had yet shown.

"I am sure I do not know why gentlemen must fight. 'Tis very terrible, I think. But, of course, 'tis monstrous gallant and exciting. And poor Mr. Bancroft has been advised to leave London for a while, because some great personage is angered. Papa did not say who was the gentleman he fought, but Sir Harold was vastly amused." She glanced up at Philip, in time to catch sight of the scornful frown on his face. "Oh, Philip, do you know? Have you perhaps heard?"

"No one who has been in Town this last week could fail to have heard," said Philip shortly. Then, very abruptly, he changed the subject.

When Philip came back to the Pride it was close on the dinner hour. He walked slowly upstairs to change his clothes, for on that point Sir Maurice was obdurate. He would not allow buckskins or riding-boots at his table. He himself was fastidious to a fault. Every evening he donned stiff satins and velvets; his thin face was painted, powdered and patched; his wig tied with great precision in the nape of his neck. He walked now with a stick, but his carriage was still fairly upright. The stick was, as Philip told him, a mere affectation.

Philip was rather silent during the first part of the meal, but when the lackeys left the room, and Sir Maurice pushed the port towards him, he spoke suddenly, as if the words had hovered on his tongue for some time.

"Father, do you hear that Bancroft is to return?"

Sir Maurice selected a nut from the dish before him, cracking it between his long, white fingers.

"I believe someone told me. What of it?"

"You said nothing of it to me."

The grey eyes lifted.

"Is he a friend of yours? I did not know."

"A friend!" Philip set his glass down with a snap. "Hardly, sir!"

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