"Ay, it's there! And I have the felicity of knowing that Cleone cares not one snap of her fingers for me! She trifles with me, and makes sport of me for her amusement!"

"Tra-la-la-la!" said Sir Maurice. "Then why go to London?"

"To show her that I am not the brainless oaf she thinks me!" answered Philip, and marched off.

Sir Maurice returned to Juvenal.

Not until his arm was healed did Philip set forth to London town. He parted amicably enough from his father, who gave him much advice, many introductions, and his blessing. Cleone he did not see at all, but when he had gone she went up to the Pride and held Sir Maurice's hand very tightly. She shed a few tears; also she laughed a little. As for Sir Maurice—well, he chided himself for a sentimental old fool, but with Philip's departure had come a void which could only be filled by Philip's return.

Tom was breakfasting when his nephew was announced. It was noon, but Tom had spent a strenuous night. Philip walked into the room, under the gloomy eye of Moggat, travel-stained and stiff from the saddle. He was quite unexpected, but his uncle showed no surprise at seeing him.

"Well met, Philip, my boy! What's to do now?"

Philip sank into a chair.

"I'll tell you when I'm fed," he grinned. "That sirloin pleases my eye."

"Not an artistic colour," said Tom, studying it, "but appetising, I grant you."

"Artistic be damned!" said Philip, attacking it. Then he frowned. "H'm! No, Tom, 'tis a displeasing blend—red and brown."

Tom looked at him in surprise.

"What's colour to you, Philip?"

"Naught, God help me," answered Philip, and fell to with a will.

"I echo that sentiment," said Tom. "How does your father?"

"Well enough; he sends you his love."

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