“Not at all,” said Tom hastily. “So Maurice has been at you again, eh? Now, Philip, lad, come off your pinnacle and be sensible, for God’s sake! What do ye want?”‘ “I want, or rather, they-he-wants me to learn how to dress, how to walk across a room, how to play with words, how to make love to women, how to bow, how to-” “Oh, stop, stop!” cried Tom. “I have the whole picture! And it’s no easy task, my boy. It will take you years to learn.”
“Why, I trust you’re pessimistic, sir,” said Philip, “for I intend to acquire all these arts-within a year.”
“Well, I like your spirit,” acknowledged Tom. “Take some more ale, lad, and let me have the whole story.”
This advice Philip saw fit to follow. In a very short time he found that he had unburdened his sore heart to an astonishingly sympathetic uncle. Tom forbore to laugh-although now and then he was seized by an inward paroxysm which he had much ado to choke down. When Philip came to the end of his recital and stared gloomily across at him, he tapped his teeth with one polished fingernail and looked exceeding wise.
“My opinion is, Philip, that you are the best of all us Jettans, but that’s neither here nor there. Now it seems to me that the folk at home don’t appreciate your sterling qualities
— ”
“Oh, ’tis not my qualities they object to! ’Tis my lack of vice.”
“Don’t interrupt my peroration, lad. They think you a noble-what was the word you used?-clodhopper, ’Tis marvellously apt. They doubt your ability to shine in society. ’Tis for us to prove them to be mistaken. You must surprise them.”
“I doubt I shall,” said Philip, with the glimmering of a smile.
Tom was wrapped in thought; his eyes ran over his nephew’s form appraisingly. “Ye’ve a fine figure, and good legs. Your hands?”
Philip extended them, laughing.
“Um! a little attention, and I’d not wish to see better. Like all the Jettans, you are passable of countenance, not to say handsome.”
“Am I?” Philip was startled. “I never knew that before!”
“Then ye know it now. You’re the spit of your father in his young days. Gad, what days they were! Before I grew fat,” he added sadly. “But I wander, I wander. Maurice and the petticoat-what’s the girl’s name?”
“I don’t see why you should assu-”
“Don’t be a fool, lad! It’s that fair chit, eh? Charlotte-no, damn it, some heathenish name!” “Cleone,” supplied Philip, submitting.
“Ay, that’s it-Cleone. Well, Maurice and Cleone think that ye’ll gain a little polish and some style. What you must do is to excel. Excel!”
“I doubt I could not,” said Philip. “And, indeed, I’ve no mind to.” “Then I’ve done with you.” Tom leaned back in his chair with an air of finality.
“No, no, Tom! You must help me!”
A stern eye was fixed on him.
“Ye must put yourself in my hands, then.” “Ay, but-”
“Completely,” said Tom inexorably. Philip collapsed. “Oh, very well!”
The round, good-tempered face: lost its unaccustomed severity. Tom was again wrapped in thought.
“Paris,” he said at length, to the bewilderment of his nephew. “You must go there,” he explained.
Philip was horrified.
“What! I? To Paris? Never!” “Then I wash my-”
“But, Tom, consider! I know so little French!” “The more reason.”
“But-but damn it, I say I will not!” Tom yawned.
“As ye will.”
Philip became more and more unhappy. “Why should I go to Paris?” he growled.
“You’re like a surly bear,” reproved Tom. “Where else would you go?” “Can’t I-surely I can learn all I want here?”
“Ay, and have all your friends nudging each other as you transform from what you are to what you are to become!”
Philip had not thought of that. He relapsed into sulky silence.
“To Paris,” resumed Tom, “within the week. Luckily, you’ve more money than is good for you. You’ve no need to pinch and scrape. I’ll take you, clothe you, and introduce you.” Philip brightened.
“Will you? That’s devilish good of you, Tom!”
“It is,” agreed Tom. “But I dare swear I’ll find entertainment there.” He chuckled. “And not a word to your father or to anyone. You’ll vanish, and when you reappear no one will know you.”
This dazzling prospect did not appear to allure Philip. He sighed heavily. “I suppose I must do it. But-” He rose and walked to the window. “It’s all that I despise and that I detest. Mere love-does not suffice. Well, we shall see.” He thrust his hands deep in his pockets. “The thing they want me to be is neither noble nor estimable. They-he-they-don’t care what may be a man’s reputation or his character! He must speak them softly, and charm their ears with silly compliments, and their eyes with pretty silks and satins. Naught else Is of consequence. Faugh!”
“Ay, you’re taking it hard,” nodded his uncle. “But they’re all the same, lad-bless ’em!” “I thought-this one-was different.”
“More fool you,” said Tom cynically.
Chapter VI. The Beginning of the Transformation
Philip stood in the middle of the floor, expostulating. A sleek valet was kneeling before him, coaxing his gold-clocked stockings over the knee of his small-clothes, and a middle-aged exquisite was arranging his Mechlin cravat for tile seventh time, a frown crinkling his forehead, and French oaths proceeding from his tinted lips. Mr Thomas Jettan was giving the nails of Philip’s right hand a last, lingering polish. And Philip, supremely miserable, expostulated in vain.
François sat back on his heels and eyed Philip’s legs adoringly.
“But of an excellence, m’sieur! So perfect a calf, m’sieur! So vairy fine a laig,” he explained in English.
Philip tried to squint down at them, and was rewarded by an impatient exclamation from the
gentleman who was wrestling with his cravat.
“Tais-toi, imbecile! ’Ow is it zat I shall arrange your cravat if you tweest and turn like zis? Lift your chin, Philippe!”
“Mais, monsieur, je-je-cela me donne-mal au cou.” “Il faut souffrir pour être bel,” replied the Marquis severely. “So it seems,” said Philip irritably. “Tom, for God’s sake, have done!” His uncle chuckled.
“I’ve finished, never fear. Jean, that is wonderful!”
Le Marquis de Chateau-Banvau stepped back to view his handiwork. “I am not altogether satisfied,” he said musingly.
Philip warded him off.
“No, no, m’sieur! I am sure it is perfection!”
The Marquis disregarded him. Once more his nimble fingers busied themselves amongst the folds of soft lace. His eyes gleamed suddenly.
“It is well! François, the sapphire pin! Quickly!”
The valet held it out. He and Tom watched anxiously as the Marquis’ hand hovered, uncertain. Philip felt that this was a supreme moment; he held his breath. Then the pin was fixed with one unerring movement, and the two onlookers drew deep breaths of relief. The Marquis nodded.
“Yes, Tom, you are right It is a triumph. Sit down, Philippe.” Philip sank into a chair by the dressing-table. “What now? Have you nearly finished?” “Now the rouge. François, haste!” Philip tried to rebel.
“I will not be painted and powdered!” The Marquis fixed him with a cold eye. “Plaît-il?”
“M’sieur-I-I will not!”
“Philippe-if it were not for the love I bear your papa, I would leave you zis minute. You will do as I say, hein?”
“But, m’sieur, can I not go without paint?” “You can not.”
Philip smiled ruefully. “Then do your worst!”
“It is not my worst, ingrat. It is my best!” “Your best, then. I am really very grateful, sir.” The Marquis’ lips twitched. He signed to François.
Under his deft hands Philip squirmed and screwed up his face. He complained that the haresfoot tickled him, and he winced when the Marquis pressed two patches on his face. When François dusted his cheeks with powder he sneezed, and when a single sapphire earring was placed in his left ear he scowled and muttered direfully.