He found him seated on the terrace, reading Juvenal. Sir Maurice, glancing up, observed Philip's sling. He said nothing, but his eyes gleamed an instant.

Philip threw himself down upon a bench.

"Well, sir, Bancroft and I have met."

"I thought it would come," nodded his father.

"I'm no match for him. He—pinked me with some ease."

Again Sir Maurice nodded.

"Also"—Philip spoke with difficulty—"Cleone—will have none of me—as I am." He looked across at his father with some bitterness. "As you prophesied, sir, she prefers the attentions of such as Bancroft."

"And so—?"

Philip was silent.

"And so Mr. Jettan withdraws from the lists. Very fine," added Sir Maurice.

"Have I said so, sir?" Philip spoke sharply. "Cleone desires a beau—she shall have one! I have told her that I shall not come to her until I am what—she thinks—is her desire! I will show her and you that I am not the dull-witted bumpkin you think me, fit for nothing better than"—he mimicked his father's tone—"to till the earth! I'll learn to be the painted fop you'd like to see me! Neither you nor she shall be offended longer by the sight of me as I am!"

"Now, here's a heat!" remarked Sir Maurice. "So you'll to London, boy? To your uncle?"

Philip shrugged.

"As well to him as any other. I care not."

"That's the wrong spirit for your emprise," said Sir Maurice, a laugh in his eyes. "You must enter into your venture heart and soul."

Philip flung out his arm.

"My heart's here, sir, at home!"

"It's also at Sharley House," said his father dryly, "or why do you go to London?"

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