“Write a canzonet to your big eyes!” he laughed. Jennifer blushed, and her lips trembled into a smile. “Will you really? I should like that, I think, Mr Jettan.”
“It shall be ready by noon tomorrow,” said Philip at once, “if you will promise not to misname me!”
“But-”
“Jenny, I vow I have not changed so much! ’Tis only my silly clothes!” “That’s-what Clo said when I told her she had changed.”
“Oh!” Philip shot a glance towards the unconscious Cleone. “Did she say that?” “Yes. But I think she has changed, don’t you?”
“De tête en pieds,” said Philip slowly. “What is that?” Jennifer looked rather alarmed. Philip turned back to her.
“That is a foolish habit, Jenny. They say I chatter French all day. Which is very affected.” “French? D’you talk French now? How wonderful!” breathed Jennifer. “Say something else! Please!”
“La lumière de tes beaux yeux me pénètre jusqu’au coeur.” He bowed, smiling. “Oh! What does that mean?”
“It wouldn’t be good for you to know,” answered Philip gravely. “Oh! but I would like to know, I think,” she said naively. “I said that-you have very beautiful eyes.”
“Did you? How-how dreadful of you! And you won’t forget the-the can-can-what you were going to write for me, will you?”
“The canzonet. No, I think it must be a sonnet. And the flower-alas, your flower is out of season!”
“Is it? What is my flower?” “A daisy.”
She considered this.
“I do not like daisies very much. Haven’t I another flower?” “Yes, a snowdrop.”
“Oh, that is pretty!” She clapped her hands, “Is it too late for snowdrops?” “I defy it to be too late!” said Philip. “You shall have them if I have to fly to the ends of the earth for them!”
Jennifer giggled.
“But you couldn’t, could you? Cleone! Cleone!” Cleone came across the room.
“Yes, Jenny? Has Mr Jettan been saying dreadfully flattering things to you?” “N-yes, I think he has! And he says I must still call him Philip. And oh! he is going to write a-a sonnet to my eyes, tied with snowdrops! Mr. J-Philip, what is Cleone’s flower?”
Philip had risen. He put a chair forward for Cleone.
“Can you ask, Jenny? What but a rose?” Cleone sat down. Her lips smiled steadily.” “A rose? Surely it’s a flaunting flower, sir?”
“Ah, mademoiselle, it must be that you have never seen a rose just bursting from the bud!” “Oh, la! I am overcome, sir! And I have not yet thanked you for the bouquet you sent me this morning!”
Philip’s eyes travelled to the violets at her breast. “I did not send violets,” he said mournfully. Cleone’s eyes flashed.
“No. These”-she touched the flowers caressingly-“I have from Sir Deryk Brenderby.” “He is very fortunate, mademoiselle. Would that I were also!”
“I think you are, sir. Mistress Ann Nutley wore your carnations yesterday the whole evening.” Cleone found that she was looking straight into his eyes. Hurriedly she looked away, but a pulse was beating in her throat. For one fleeting instant she had seen the old Philip, grave, honest, a little appealing. If only-if only-
“Mr Jett-I mean Philip! Will you teach me to say something in French?” “Why, of course, chèrie. What would you say?” The pulse stopped its excited beating; the blue eyes lost their wistful softness. Cleone turned to James, who stood at her elbow.
Chapter XV. Lady Malmerstoke on Husbands
“And he brought it himself, yesterday morning, tied with snowdrops. I don’t know how he got them, for they are over, are they not, Clo? But there they were, with the prettiest verse you can imagine. It said my eyes were twin pools of grey! Isn’t that beautiful?” Cleone jerked one shoulder.
“It is not very original,” she said.
“Don’t you like it?” asked Jennifer reproachfully, Cleone was ashamed of her flash of ill-humour.
“Yes, dear, of course I do. So Mr Jettan brought it to you himself, did he?” “Indeed, yes! And stayed a full hour, talking to papa and to me. What do you think? He has begged me to be sure and dance with him on Wednesday? Is it not kind of him?” “Very,” said Cleone dully.
“I cannot imagine why he should want to,” Jennifer prattled on. “Jamie says he is at Mistress Nutley’s feet. Is she very lovely, Clo?”
“I don’t know. Yes, I suppose she is.”
“Philip is teaching me to speak French. It is so droll, and he laughs at my accent. Can you speak French, Clo?”
“A little. No doubt he would laugh at my accent if he ever heard it.”
“Oh, I do not think so! He could not, could he? Clo, I asked if he did not think you were very beautiful, and he said-”
“Jenny, you must not ask things like that!”
“He did not mind! Truly, he did not! He just laughed-he is always laughing, Clo!-and said that there was no one who did not think so. Was not that neat?”
“Very,” said Cleone.
Jennifer drew nearer.
“Cleone, may I tell you a secret?” A fierce pain shot through Cleone. “A secret? What is it?” she asked quickly.
“Why, Clo, how strange you look! Tis only that I know James to be in love with-you!” Cleone sank back. She started to laugh from sheer relief.
“I do not see that it is funny,” said Jennifer, hurt.
“No, no, dear: it-it is not that-I mean, of course, of course. I knew that James was-was-fond of me!”
“Did you? Oh-oh, are you going to marry him?” Jennifer’s voice squeaked with
excitement.
“Jenny, you ask such dreadful questions! No, I am not.” “But-but he loves you, Clo! Don’t you love him?”
“Not like that. James only thinks he loves me. He’s too young. I-Tell me about your dress, dear!”
“For the ball?” Jennifer sat up, nothing loth. “’Tis of white silk-” “Sir Deryk Brenderby!”
Jennifer started,
“Oh, dear!” she said regretfully. A tall, loose-limbed man came in.
“Fair Mistress Cleone! I am happy, indeed, to have found you in! I kiss your hands, dear lady!”
Cleone drew them away, smiling. “Mistress Jennifer Winton, Sir Deryk.”
Brenderby seemed to become suddenly aware of Jenny’s presence. He bowed. Jennifer curtsied demurely, and took refuge behind her friend.
Sir Deryk lowered himself into a chair.
“Mistress Cleone, can you guess why I have come?” “To see me!” said Cleone archly.
“That is the obvious, fair tormentor! Another reason had I.” “The first should be enough, sir,” answered Cleone, with downcast eyes. “And is, Most Beautiful. But the other reason concerns you also.” “La! You intrigue me, sir! Pray, what is it?”
“To beg, on my knees, that you will dance with me on Wednesday!” “Oh, I don’t know!” Cleone shook her head. “I doubt all the dances are gone.” “Ah, no, dearest lady! Not all!”
“Indeed, I think so! I cannot promise anything.” “But you give me hope?”
“I will not take it from you,” said Cleone. “Perhaps Jennifer will give you a dance.” Sir Deryk did not look much elated. But he bowed to Jennifer. “May that happiness be mine, madam?”
“Th-thank you,” stammered Jennifer. “If you please!” Sir Deryk bowed again and straightway forgot her existence.
“You wear my primroses, fairest!” he said to Cleone. “I scarce dared hope so modest a posy would be so honoured.”
Cleone glanced down at the pale yellow blossoms. “Oh, are they yours? I had forgot,” she said cruelly. “Ah, Cleone!”
Cleone raised her brows. “My name, sir?”
“Mistress Cleone,” corrected Brenderby, bowing.
Lady Malmerstoke chose that moment at which to billow into the room. She leaned on the arm of one Mr Jettan.
“Philip, you are a sad fellow! You do not mean one word of what you say! Oh, lud! I have chanced on a reception. Give ye good den, Jenny, my dear. Sir Deryk? Thus early in the morning? I think you know Mr Jettan?”