"Oh, some months! He is refreshing, is it not so? So young, so lovable."
"Lovable be damned!" said Bancroft.
De Chambert looked at him in surprise.
"You don't like our little Philippe?"
"No, I do not. Conceited young upstart!"
"Con--ah, but no! You misunderstand him! He pretends, and it is very
amusing, but he is not conceited; he is just a _bébé_."
"Damn it, is he everyone's pet?"
"_C'est le dernier cri de Paris._ There are some who are jealous,
naturally, but all who know him like him too much to be jealous."
"Jealous!" Bancroft snorted. "Jealous of that sprig!"
De Chambert cast him a shrewd glance.
"A word in your ear, m'sieu'! Do not speak your dislike too widely. _Le
petit Philippe_ has powerful friends. You will be frowned upon if you
sneer at him."
Bancroft struggled for words.
"I'll--not conceal from you, De Chambert, that I've a grudge against
your little Philippe. I punished him once before for impudence."
"Aha? I don't think you were well advised to do so again. He would
have no lack of friends, and with a small-sword he is a veritable
devil. It would not be wise to show your enmity, for you will meet him
everywhere, and he is the ladies' darling. That says much, _hein_?"
"And when I saw him last," spluttered Bancroft, "he was clad in a coat
I'd not give a lackey, and had as much conversation as a scarecrow!"
"Yes? I heard some talk of that. He is a marvel, our Philippe."
"Curse all marvels!" said Bancroft fervently.