once more lady malmerstoke's page went up to the boudoir.
"mistah philip jettan is below, m'lady!"
up started cleone.
"i will not see him! aunt sarah, i beg you will go to him! please spare me this—humiliation!"
lady malmerstoke waved her aside.
"admit him, sambo. yes, here. cleone, control yourself!"
"i can't see him! i can't! i can't! how can i face him?"
"turn your back, then," said her unsympathetic aunt. "i wonder what he has done?"
"d-do you think he—could have—arranged everything?" asked cleone, with a gleam of hope.
"from what i have seen of him, i should say yes. a masterful young man, my dear. else why that chin?" she moved to the door. philip came in, immaculate as ever. "ah, philip!"
philip shot a look past her. cleone had fled to the window. he bent and kissed lady malmerstoke's hand.
"bonjour, madame!" he held open the door and bowed.
her ladyship laughed.
"what! turning me from my own boudoir?"
"if you please, madame."
"aunt—sarah!" the whisper came from the window.
philip smiled faintly.
"madame...."
"oh, that chin!" said her ladyship, and patted it. she went out and philip closed the door behind her.
cleone's fingers clasped one another desperately. her heart seemed to have jumped into her throat. it almost choked her. she dared not look round. she heard the rustle of philip's coat-skirts. never, never had she felt so ashamed, or so frightened.
"your devoted servant, mademoiselle!"
cleone could not speak. she stood where she was, trembling uncontrollably.
"i have the honour of informing you, mademoiselle, that you are released from your engagements."
was there a note of laughter in the prim voice?
"i—thank you—sir," whispered cleone. her teeth clenched in an effort to keep back the tears. she was blinded by them, and her bosom was heaving.
there was a slight pause. why did he not go? did he wish to see her still more humiliated?
"i have also to offer, on sir deryk's behalf, his apologies for the happenings of last night, mademoiselle."
"th—thank—you, sir."
again the nerve-killing silence. if only he would go before she broke down!
"cleone...." said philip gently.
the tears were running down her cheeks, but she kept her head turned away.
"please—go!" she begged huskily.
he was coming across the room towards her.... cleone gripped her hands.
"cleone ... dearest!"
a heartbroken sob betrayed her. philip took her in his arms.
"my sweetheart! crying? oh no, no! there is naught now to distress you."
the feel of his arms about her was sheer bliss; their strength was like a haven of refuge. yet cleone tried to thrust him away.
"what—must you—think of me!" she sobbed.
he drew her closer, till her head rested against his shoulder.
"why, that you are a dear, foolish, naughty little cleone. chérie, don't cry. it is only your philip—your own philip, who has always loved you, and only you. look up, my darling, look up!"
cleone gave way to the insistence of his arms.
"oh, philip—forgive me!" she wept. "i have—been mad!" she raised her head and philips arms tightened still more. he bent over her and kissed her parted lips almost fiercely.
later, seated beside him on the couch, her head on his shoulder, and his arm about her, cleone gave a great sigh.
"but why—why did you treat me so—hatefully—when you—came back, philip?"
"i was hurt, darling, and wished to see whether you wanted the real me—or a painted puppet. but then you changed suddenly—and i knew not what to think."
cleone nestled closer.
"because i thought you—did not care! but oh, philip, philip, i have been so unhappy!"
philip promptly kissed her.
"and—last night—philip, you don't think i—"
"sweetheart! is it likely that i'd believe ill of you?"
she hid her face.
"i—i believed—ill—of you," she whispered.
"but you do not believe it now, sweetheart?"
"no, oh no! but—but—that duel with mr. bancroft. was it—was it—some—french lady?"
philip was silent for a moment.
"no, cleone. that is all i can say."
"was it"—her voice was breathless—"was it—me?"
philip did not answer.
"it was! how wonderful!"
philip was startled.
"you are pleased, cleone? pleased?"
"of course i am! i—oo!" she gave a little wriggle of delight. "why did you not tell me?"
"it is not—one of the things one tells one's lady-love," said philip.
"oh! and to-day? how did you—persuade sir deryk?"
"through the arm. but he had no intention of holding you to your word."
cleone grew rather rigid.
"oh—indeed? in-deed?"
philip was mystified.
"you did not want to be held to it, did you, chérie?"
"n-no. but—i don't like him, philip."
"i did not, i confess. i think i do now."
"do you? and what of james?"
"oh, james! he will recover."
there was a pause while cleone digested this.
"philip?"
"cleone?"
"you—you—don't care for jenny, do you?"
"jenny? cleone, for shame! because i was polite—"
"more than that, philip!"
"well, dearest, no one paid any heed to her or was kind. what would you?"
"it was only that? i thought—i thought—"
"cleone, you think too much," he chided her. "next you will accuse me of loving ann nutley!" it was a master-stroke, and he knew it.
"you didn't? not a tiny bit?"
"not an atom!"
"and no one—in paris?"
"no one. i have pretended, but they all knew that i had already lost my heart."
"you pretended?... oh!"
"one must, sweetest."
"but—"
he drew her closer.
"but never, most beautiful, did i become engaged—twice in one evening!" he stifled the cry that rose to her lips.
"philip, that is ungallant, and—and hateful!"
he laughed.
"is it not? ah, cleone! tell me, my dearest, what is in your locket?"
"something i meant to burn," she murmured.
"but did not?"
"no—i could not." she fumbled at her bosom and drew out the trinket. "see for yourself, philip."
he opened it. a rolled lock of brown hair fell out and a torn scrap of parchment. philip turned it over.
"yours till death, philip," he read. "cleone, my love."
she buried her face on his shoulder.
"your—hair—your poor hair!" she said.
"all gone! look up, cleone!"
she lifted her face. he gazed down at her, rapt.
"oh, cleone—i shall write a sonnet to your wonderful eyes!" he breathed.
