Powder and Patch by Georgette Heyer Page A

course! The bulk follows me.” Tom sat down weakly.
    “And you who six months ago thought yourself rich in the possession of three coats.” Philip came back to the fire. He made a little grimace of distaste. “Those far-off days! That is ended—completely!”
    Tom cast him a shrewd glance.
    “What, all of it? Cleone?”
    “Ah!” Philip smiled. “That is—another—matter. I have to thank you for your letter, Tom.” “It brought you back?”
    “En partie. She is here?”
    “Ay, with Sally Malmerstoke. She is already noticed. Sally takes her everywhere. She is now looked for—and courted.” His eyes twinkled.
    “Oho!” said Philip. He poured out a glass of burgundy from the decanter that stood on a small table. “So she is furious with me, yes?”
    “So I believe. Satterthwaite wrote that you and Bancroft fought over the fair name of some French lass. Did you?”
    Philip sipped his wine.
    “Not a whit. ’Twas her own fair name, à vrai dire.”
    “Oh! You’ll tell her that, of course?”
    “Not at all.”
    Tom stared.
    “What then? Have you some deep game in mind, Philip?”
    “Perhaps. Oh, I don’t know. I thank her for reforming me, but, being human, I am hurt and angry. Le petit Philippe se fâche,” he said, smiling suddenly. “He would see whether it is himself she loves, or—a painted puppet. It’s foolish, but what would you?” “So you are now a painted puppet?” said Tom politely.
    “What else?”
    “Dear me!” said Tom, and relapsed into profound meditation.
    “I want to have her love for me—myself, and not for my clothes, or my airs and graces. It’s incomprehensible?”
    “Not entirely,” answered Tom. “I understand your feelings. What’s to do?” “Merely my baggage,” said Philip, with another glance towards the window. “It is the coach that you hear.”
    “No, not that.” Tom listened. Voices raised in altercation sounded in the hall. Philip laughed.
    “That is the inimitable François. I do not think that Moggat finds favour in his eyes.” “I’ll swear he does not find favour in Moggat’s eyes! Who is the other one?” “Jacques, my groom and homme a tout faire.”
    “Faith, ye’ve a retinue!”
    “What would you?” shrugged Philip. He sat down opposite his uncle, and stretched his legs to the fire. “Heigh-ho! I do not like this weather.”
    “Nor anyone else. What are you going to do, now that you have returned?” “Who knows? I make my bow to London Society, I amuse myself a little—ah yes! and I procure a house.”
    “Do you make your bow to Cleone?” An impish smile danced into Philip’s eyes.
    “I present myself to Cleone—as she would have had me. A drawling, conceited, and mincing fop. Which I am not, believe me!”—
    Tom considered him.
    “No, you’re not. You don’t drawl.”
    “I shall drawl,” promised Philip. “And I shall be very languid.” “It’s the fashion, of course. You did not adopt it?”
    “It did not entice me. I am le petit sans repos, and le Petit Philippe au Coeur Perdu, and petit original. He, he, I shall be homesick. It is inevitable.”
    “Are you so much at home in Paris?” asked Tom, rather surprised. “You like the Frenchies?”
    “Liked them! Could I have disliked them?”
    “I should have thought it possible—for you. Did you make many friends?” “A revendre! They took me to their bosoms.”
    Did they indeed! Whom do you count amongst your intimates?” “Saint-Dantin—you know him?”
    “I’ve met him. Tall and dark?”
    “Ay. Paul de Vangrisse, Jules de Bergeret, Henri de Chatelin—oh, I can’t tell you. They are all charming!”
    “And the ladies?”
    “Also charming. Did you ever meet Clothilde de Chaucheron, or Julie de Marcherand? Ah, voilà ce qui fait ressouvenir! I count that rondeau one of my most successful efforts. You shall hear it some time or other.”
    “That what?” ejaculated Tom, sitting upright in his surprise.
    “A rondeau: ‘To the Pearl that