"Now what's to do?" asked his father. "Why the scorn?"

"Sir, if you could but hear the gossip about him!"

"I have no doubt I should be vastly entertained," said Sir Maurice. "What's the tale?"

"The fellow is for ever embroiling himself in some low quarrel. This time it is Lady Marchand. Faugh!"

"Lady Marchand? Not Dolly Marchand?"

"I believe so. Why, sir, do you know her?"

"I—er—knew her mother. Tell me, is she as charming?"

"As I know neither her mother, nor Lady Marchand—"

Sir Maurice sighed.

"No. Of course not. Go on."

"It's a damned sordid tale, sir, and I'll spare you the details. Lord Marchand and Bancroft fought out at Ipswich. Bancroft wounded him in the lung, and 'tis said he'll not recover."

"Clumsy," remarked Sir Maurice. "So Bancroft retires?"

"The Prince of Wales is furious, as well he might be. And Bancroft brings himself and his morals here."

A faint smile hovered on Sir Maurice's lips.

"And Mr. Jettan is righteously indignant. From which I gather that Mistress Cleone is prepared to welcome this slayer of hearts. You'd best have bought a wig, Philip."

In spite of himself, Philip laughed.

"Sir, you are incorrigible!"

"Faute de mieux. And whence, if I may ask, did you glean all this—sordid information, oh my righteous son?"

"From Tom, of course. He could talk of nothing else."

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