Powder and Patch by Georgette Heyer Read Free Book Online Page B

reluctant back. “I’ve—to learn to be—a gentleman,” he said.
    Tom stared at him. Then he burst out laughing. “God ha’ mercy, Philip, has it come to that?” “I do not take your meaning,” said Philip crossly. “What! It’s not a petticoat?”
    “Tom, I’ll thank you to—to—be quiet!” Tom choked his laughter.
    “Oh, I’m dumb! How do you propose to set about the task?” “’Tis what I want to know, Tom,”
    “And I’m to teach you?”
    Philip hesitated.
    “Is it perhaps—a thing I can best; learn alone?” he asked, surprisingly diffident. “What is it exactly you want to learn?”
    “To become a gentleman. Have I not said it?” “Odd rot, what are ye now?”
    Philip’s lips curled.
    “I have it on the best authority, Tom, that I am a clumsy, witless clod-hopper.” His uncle regarded him with some kindliness.
    “Little vixen,” he remarked sapiently. “I beg your pardon?” Philip was cold.
    “Not at all,” said Tom hastily. “So Maurice has been at you again, eh? Now, Philip, lad, come off your pinnacle and be sensible, for God’s sake! What do ye want?”‘ “I want, or rather, they—he—wants me to learn how to dress, how to walk across a room, how to play with words, how to make love to women, how to bow, how to—” “Oh, stop, stop!” cried Tom. “I have the whole picture! And it’s no easy task, my boy. It will take you years to learn.”
    “Why, I trust you’re pessimistic, sir,” said Philip, “for I intend to acquire all these arts—within a year.”
    “Well, I like your spirit,” acknowledged Tom. “Take some more ale, lad, and let me have the whole story.”
    This advice Philip saw fit to follow. In a very short time he found that he had unburdened his sore heart to an astonishingly sympathetic uncle. Tom forbore to laugh—although now and then he was seized by an inward paroxysm which he had much ado to choke down. When Philip came to the end of his recital and stared gloomily across at him, he tapped his teeth with one polished fingernail and looked exceeding wise.
    “My opinion is, Philip, that you are the best of all us Jettans, but that’s neither here nor there. Now it seems to me that the folk at home don’t appreciate your sterling qualities
    —”
    “Oh, ’tis not my qualities they object to! ’Tis my lack of vice.”
    “Don’t interrupt my peroration, lad. They think you a noble—what was the word you used?—clodhopper, ’Tis marvellously apt. They doubt your ability to shine in society. ’Tis for us to prove them to be mistaken. You must surprise them.”
    “I doubt I shall,” said Philip, with the glimmering of a smile.
    Tom was wrapped in thought; his eyes ran over his nephew’s form appraisingly. “Ye’ve a fine figure, and good legs. Your hands?”
    Philip extended them, laughing.
    “Um! a little attention, and I’d not wish to see better. Like all the Jettans, you are passable of countenance, not to say handsome.”
    “Am I?” Philip was startled. “I never knew that before!”
    “Then ye know it now. You’re the spit of your father in his young days. Gad, what days they were! Before I grew fat,” he added sadly. “But I wander, I wander. Maurice and the petticoat—what’s the girl’s name?”
    “I don’t see why you should assu—”
    “Don’t be a fool, lad! It’s that fair chit, eh? Charlotte—no, damn it, some heathenish name!” “Cleone,” supplied Philip, submitting.
    “Ay, that’s it—Cleone. Well, Maurice and Cleone think that ye’ll gain a little polish and some style. What you must do is to excel. Excel!”
    “I doubt I could not,” said Philip. “And, indeed, I’ve no mind to.” “Then I’ve done with you.” Tom leaned back in his chair with an air of finality.
    “No, no, Tom! You must help me!”
    A stern eye was fixed on him.
    “Ye must put yourself in my hands, then.” “Ay, but—”
    “Completely,” said Tom inexorably. Philip collapsed. “Oh, very well!”
    The