Powder and Patch by Georgette Heyer Page B

the last shreds of rebellion; he played his part well, and he became very busy. Every morning he fenced with an expert until he had acquired some skill with a small-sword; he spoke nothing but French from morn to night; he permitted the Marquis to introduce him into society; he strove to loosen his tongue; and he paid flippant court to several damsels who ogled him for his fine appearance, until his light conversation grew less forced and uncomfortable. For a while he took no interest in his tailoring, allowing Tom or François to garb him as they pleased. But one day, when François extended a pair of cream stockings to his gaze, he eyed them through his quizzing-glass for a long moment. Then he waved them aside.
    François was hurt; he liked those stockings. Would not M’sieur consider them? M’sieur most emphatically would not. If François admired pink clocks on a cream ground, let him take the stockings. M’sieur would not wear them; they offended him. Before very long ‘le jeune Anglais’ was looked for and welcomed. Ladies like him for his firm chin, and his palpable manliness; men liked him for his modesty and his money. He was invited to routs and bals masqué, and to card parties and soirées. Philip began to enjoy himself; he was tasting the delights of popularity. Bit by bit he grew to expect invitations from these new acquaintances. But still M. le Marquis was dissatisfied. It was all very well, but not well enough for him.
    However, it was quite well enough for Thomas, and he departed, chuckling and elated. He
    left Philip debating over two wigs and the arrangement of his jewels.
    Hardly a fortnight later Philip made secure his position in Polite Society by fighting a duel with a jealous husband. Lest you should be shocked at this sudden depravity, I will tell you that there was little enough cause for fighting, as Philip considered the lady as he might consider an aunt. Happily she was unaware of this. Philip’s friends did not hold back; he had no difficulty in finding seconds, and the affaire ended in a neat thrust which pinked the husband, and a fresh wave of popularity for Philip. The Marquis told his pupil that he was a gay dog, and was met by a chilling stare.
    “I—beg—your pardon?” said Philip stiffly.
    “But what a modesty!” cried the Marquis, much amused.
    “Is it conceivable that you think me attracted by the smiles of Madame de Foli-Martin?” “But yes! Of course I think it!”
    “Permit me to enlighten you,” said Philip. “My affections are with a lady—at home.” “Oh, la, la!” deplored the Marquis. “A lady of the country? A simple country wench?” “I thank God, yes,” said Philip. He depressed his friend, who had hoped for better things of him. But he thought it wiser to change the subject.
    “Philip, I will take you to Court.”
    Philip crossed one elegantly breeched leg over the other. He was, if anything, a little bored. “Yes? Next week, perhaps? I am very much engaged until then.”
    The shrewd eyes twinkled.
    “The manner is excellent, my friend. You will like to make your bow to the King.” Philip shrugged.
    “Certainly. I trust the King will consider himself sufficiently honoured.” “Sans doute,” bowed the Marquis. “But I counsel you, slayer of hearts, to cast your eyes away from la Pompadour.”
    “M’sieur, I have already told you—”
    “Oh, yes. But you have now the name for—slaying of hearts.” Philip dropped his affectation.
    “Good gad! Do you say so, sir? I?”
    “It is very fashionable,” said the Marquis mischievously. “You become a figure.” “But I—” He checked himself, and relapsed into languor. “They fatigue me.” And he yawned. “What! Even la Salévier?”
    “The woman with the enormous wig—oh—ah! She is well enough, but passée, mon cher Marquis, passeé!”
    “Sangdieu, you are fastidious of a sudden! Is the little country chit so lovely?” “Your pardon, Marquis, but I prefer to leave that