Powder and Patch Read Free Page B

powder, no curls, unpolished nails, and an un-painted face—guiltless, too, of even the smallest patch—it was, thought Cleone, enough to make one weep. Nevertheless, she did not weep, because, for one thing, it would have made her eyes red, and another, it would be of very little use. Philip must be reformed, since she—well, since she did not dislike him.
    At the present time Philip had just returned from Town, whither he had been sent by his father, ostensibly to transact some business concerning the estate, but really that his unfashionable soul might succumb to the delights of Town. Philip was not aware of this secret purpose, but Cleone knew all about it She was very fond of Sir Maurice, and he of her. When Sir Maurice saw which way Philip looked for a wife, he was pleased enough, although a Jettan might have cast his eyes much higher. But Sir Maurice, mindful of the old adage, was content to let things run their course. All that worried him was the apparent obduracy of his son in the matter of the first prophecy. He loved Philip, he did not wish to lose him, he liked his companionship, but—“By God, sir, you are a damned dull dog!” At that young Philip’s straight brows drew close over the bridge of his nose, only to relax again as he smiled.
    “Well, sir, I hold two gay dogs in the family to be enough.” Sir Maurice’s mouth quivered responsively. “What’s that, Philip? Do you seek to reprove me?” “Not a whit, sir. You are you, but I—am I.”
    “So it seems,” said his father. “And you being yourself have fallen in love with a mighty pretty child; still being yourself, you are like to be left disconsolate.”
    Philip had flushed slightly at the reference to Cleone. The end of the sentence left him frowning.
    “What mean you, sir?”
    The shrewd grey eyes, so like his own, regarded him pityingly.
    “Little Mistress Cleone will have none of you an’ you fail to mend your ways, my son. Do you not know it? What has that dainty piece to do with a raw clodhopper like yourself?” Philip answered low.
    “If Mistress Cleone gives me her love it will be for me as I am. She is worthy a man, not a powdered, ruffled beau.”
    “A man! Sacré tonnerre
    , ’tis what you are, hein? Philip, child, get you to Town to your uncle and buy a wig.” “No, sir, I thank you. I shaft do very well without a wig.”
    Sir Maurice drove his cane downwards at the floor in exasperation. “Mille diables! You’ll to Town as I say, defiant boy! You may finish the business with that scoundrel Jenkins while you are about it!”
    Philip nodded.
    “That I will do, sir, since you wish it.”
    “Bah!” retorted his father.
    He had gone; now he had come back, the business details settled to his satisfaction, but with no wig. Sir Maurice was pleased to see him again, more pleased than he appeared, as Philip was well aware. He listened to what his son had to tell him of Tom Jettan, failed to glean any of the latest society gossip, and dismissed Philip from his presence. Half an hour later Philip rode in at the gates of Sharley House, sitting straight in his saddle, a pulse in his throat throbbing in anticipation.
    Cleone saw him coming. She was seated in the parlour window, embroidering in a languid fashion. Truth to tell, she was tired of her own company and not at all averse from seeing Philip. As he passed the window she bent forward a little, smiling down at him. Philip saw her at once; indeed, he had been eyeing every window of the warm, red house in the hope that she might be sitting in one. He reined in his horse and bowed to her, hat in hand. Cleone opened the casement wider, leaning over the sill, her golden curls falling forward under the strings of her cap.
    “Why, sir, are you back already?” she asked, dimpling. “Already!” he echoed. “It has been years! Ten years, Cleone!” “Pooh!” she said. “Ten days—not a moment more!” “Is that all it has seemed to you?” he said. Cleone’s cheek became