Powder and Patch by Georgette Heyer

fixed the ruby and swept found for his cloak and hat.
    “Faith, that can I not. I come, Jules, I come! François, thou rogue, my snuffbox! Would that he may be wearing that salmon-pink! François, my cane! Jules, you are sitting on my cloak!
    Sangdieu! my new cloak!” He swept De Bergeret off the coat, and shook out the soft, rose-lined folds. “God be praised, it is unhurt!” With a deft movement he swung it over his shoulders and fastened it. “My hat! Jules, what think you of my hat?” “A grey hat! Philippe, what an audacity! You are really coming to De Farraud’s?” “To meet the so dear M. Bancroft. En avant, Jules!”
    De Bergeret went to the glass,
    “Cultivate a more restful manner, mon petit! I am not to be hurried. Do you like this mixture of violet and cream?”
    “I like everything you have on, even the so badly arranged cravat! I am consumed with impatience! Come!”
    “But why. Are you hasting to see the unspeakable Bancroft?” “But yes! Whom else? I will explain en route.”
    De Bergeret suffered himself to be led to the door.
    “Philippe, it is not convenable to display such enthusiasm. Languor is now the fashion.” “I am a fashion unto myself, me. I am an original. And I go to call out M. Bancroft!” De Bergeret stopped short.
    “What! A brawl? No, then, I’ll not come!”
    “A brawl? Is it possible? I shall conduct the affair with great douceur, I assure you! You and Saint-Dantin are to be my seconds.”
    “Miséricorde! Philippe, you become more and more tiresome!” expostulated his friend. “Why must you fight this fellow?”
    “An old quarrel—the settling of an unpaid score! Allons!” “Oh, the devil,” muttered Bancroft.
    “Où donc?” inquired Le Vallon, who was sitting next him and who understood English. Bancroft shot an angry glance towards the door. Le Vallon turned to see what had excited his wrath.
    Talking to De Farraud, with many quick gestures and smiles, was Philip. He had just arrived, and he was apologising for his lateness, throwing all the blame on De Bergeret, who accepted it meekly.
    “Oh, the little Englishman!” said Le Vallon scornfully. “Always late, always eccentric. And grey lace! What an affectation!”
    Philip cast a swift glance round the room. His eyes rested an instant on Bancroft’s face, then they passed on. Two or three men called to him, and he presently went to dice with De Vangrisse. But when Le Vallon left Bancroft to join a faro group, Philip swept up his dice, and with a laughing word to De Vangrisse, promising to return, he walked over to Bancroft’s table, and sat down in Le Vallon’s chair with a swirl of his full skirts.
    Bancroft was about to rise. Astonished at Philip’s sudden advent, he sank back again. “To what do I owe this honour?” he demanded.
    Philip dealt out the cards.
    “I will tell you. A hand of piquet? You will declare?”
    Bancroft sorted his hand rather sullenly. Not until he had declared and played his card did Philip speak again. Then he took the trick and leant forward.
    “It comes to my ears that you have been bandying a certain lady’s name about Paris in a way that does not please me. You understand, yes?”
    “What the devil is it to you?” cried Bancroft, crimson-faced.
    “‘Sh, sh! Not so loud, if you please! Go on playing! I am informed that you speak of this lady as a pretty piece! It is not how I will have you speak of her. Also, you say that she fell in love with you en désespéré. Eh bien, I say that you lie in your throat!”
    “Sir!”
    “Doucement, doucement. Further, I say that if so be you again mention this lady’s name in public I shall send my lackeys to punish you. It is understood?”
    “You—you—you impudent young cockerel! I shall know how to answer this! What’s Cleone to you, eh?”
    The pleasant smile died. Philip leaned forward. “That name I will not have spoken, m’sieur. Strive to bear it in mind. I have many friends, and they will tell me if you