"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."

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