Powder and Patch by Georgette Heyer

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