Chapter II: Part 2

[_Jumping up._] Phiou! I'm fearfully indiscreet. [_Going to_ WESTRIP _and touching his coat-sleeve._] Between ourselves, Mr. Westrip!

WESTRIP.

[_Moving to the round table._] Quite--quite.

MISS TRACER.

[_Following him._] Oh, they're not a bad sort, by any means, if you just humour them a bit. We all have our little weaknesses, haven't we? I've mine, I confess.

WESTRIP.

They've both been excessively kind to _me_. [_Turning to her._] And as for Madame de Chaumié----

MISS TRACER.

Oh, she's a dear--a regular dear!

WESTRIP.

[_Fervently._] By Jove, isn't she!

MISS TRACER.

But then, _my_ theory is that she was changed at her birth. _She's_ not a genuine Filson, I'll swear. [_Suddenly walking away from him._] H'sh!

[LADY FILSON, _a handsome, complacent woman of about
fifty-seven, enters from the hall._

LADY FILSON.

[_Who carries a hand-bag crammed with letters, cards of invitation, etc._] Good morning.

MISS TRACER _and_ WESTRIP.

Good morning, Lady Filson.

LADY FILSON.

[_Closing the door and advancing._] Oh, Mr. Westrip, I wish you'd try to find the last number of the _Trifler_. It must have been taken out of my bedroom by one of the servants.

WESTRIP.

[_Searching among the periodicals on the round table._] Certainly, Lady Filson.

MISS TRACER.

Oh, Lady Filson, don't keep that horrid snapshot of you and Sir Randle! It's _too_ unflattering.

LADY FILSON.

[_At the writing-table._] As if that mattered! So are the portraits of Lord and Lady Sturminster on the same page. [_Sitting at the table and emptying her bag._] These absurd things give Sir Randle and me a hearty laugh; that's why I preserve them.

WESTRIP.

It isn't here. [_Going to the glazed door._] I'll hunt for it downstairs.

LADY FILSON.

Thank you. [_Discovering the pile of press-cuttings._] What's this? [_Affecting annoyance._] Not more press-cuttings! [_Beginning to devour the cuttings._] Tcht, tcht, tcht!

[_As_ WESTRIP _reaches the door,_ BERTRAM FILSON
_enters. He is wearing riding-dress._

BERTRAM.

[_A conceited, pompous young man of thirty._] Good morning, Mr. Westrip.

WESTRIP.

Good morning, Mr. Filson.

[WESTRIP _goes out, closing the door._

BERTRAM.

[_To_ MISS TRACER.] Good morning, Miss Tracer.

MISS TRACER.

[_Who has seated herself in the chair at the further side of the writing-table--meekly._] Good morning.

LADY FILSON.

[_Half turning to_ BERTRAM, _the press-cuttings in her hand._] Ah, my darling! Was that you I saw speaking to Underwood as I came through the hall?

BERTRAM.

Yes, mother dear. [_Bending over her and kissing her._] How are you?

LADY FILSON.

[_Dotingly._] Enjoyed your ride, my pet?

BERTRAM.

Fairly, mother.

LADY FILSON.

Only fairly?

BERTRAM.

[_Shutting his eyes._] Such an appalling crowd of ordinary people in the Row, I mean t'say.

LADY FILSON.

How dreadful for you! [_Giving him the press-cuttings._] Sit down, if you're not too warm, and look at this rubbish while I talk to Miss Tracer.

BERTRAM.

Press-cuttings?

LADY FILSON.

Isn't it strange, the way the papers follow all our doings!

BERTRAM.

Not in the least, mother. [_Sitting upon the settee on the right and reading the press-cuttings._] I mean t'say, I consider it perfectly right and proper.

LADY FILSON.

[_Sorting her letters and cards--to_ MISS TRACER.] There's not much this morning, Miss Tracer. [_Handing some letters to_ MISS TRACER.] _You_ can deal with these.

MISS TRACER.

Thank you, Lady Filson.

LADY FILSON.

[_Reading a letter._] Lady Skewes and Mrs. Walter Quebec ... arranging a concert in aid of ... [_sighing_] tickets, of course!... what tiring women!... [_turning the sheet_] oh!... may they include me in their list of patronesses?... Princess Cagliari-Tamponi, the Countess of Harrogate, the Viscountess Chepmell, Lady Kathleen Tring ... [_laying the letter aside_] delighted. [_Heaping together the cards and the rest of the letters._] I must answer those myself. [_To_ MISS TRACER.] That's all. [MISS TRACER _rises._] Get on with the invitations for July the eighth as quickly as you can.

MISS TRACER.

[_Going to the glazed door._] Yes, Lady Filson.

LADY FILSON.

[_Turning._] Miss Tracer----

MISS TRACER.

[_Halting._] Yes, Lady Filson?

LADY FILSON.

I think Madame de Chaumié wants you to do some little commissions for her. Kindly see her before you go to your room.

BERTRAM.

[_To_ MISS TRACER, _looking up._] No, no; don't.

LADY FILSON.

[_To_ BERTRAM.] Not?

BERTRAM.

My sister is engaged, mother.

LADY FILSON.

Engaged?

BERTRAM.

With Sir Timothy Barradell.

LADY FILSON.

Oh--? [_To_ MISS TRACER.] By-and-by, then.

MISS TRACER.

Yes, Lady Filson.

[MISS TRACER _departs, closing the door._

LADY FILSON.

[_To_ BERTRAM, _eagerly._] Sir Timothy----!

BERTRAM.

He called half-an-hour ago, mother, Underwood tells me, with a note for Ottoline.

LADY FILSON.

From himself?

BERTRAM.

Presumably; and Dilworth came down and took him up to her boudoir.

LADY FILSON.

[_Rising._] An unusual time of day for a call! [_Approaching_ BERTRAM _and speaking under her breath._] Are matters coming to a head between them, my dear boy?

BERTRAM.

Don't ask _me_, mother. [_Rising._] You are as capable of forming an opinion as I am, I mean t'say.

LADY FILSON.

I've a feeling that _something_ is in the air. He positively shadowed her last night at the Gorhams'!

BERTRAM.

[_Knitting his brows._] I admit I should prefer, if my sister contemplates marrying again, that her choice fell on one of the others.

LADY FILSON.

Mr. Trefusis--or George Delacour----?

BERTRAM.

Even Trevor Wilson. [_Wincing._] The idea of a merchant brother-in-law doesn't appeal to me very strongly, I mean t'say.

LADY FILSON.

Still, a baronet----!

BERTRAM.

And I suppose----?

LADY FILSON.

Oh, enormously!

BERTRAM.

[_Magnanimously._] Anyhow, my dear mother, if Ottoline is fond of the man, I promise you that not a murmur from me shall mar their happiness.

LADY FILSON.

[_Tenderly, pinching his chin._] My darling!

BERTRAM.

[_With a shiver._] I'm afraid I _am_ getting a little chilled; [_giving her the press-cuttings_] I'll go and change.

LADY FILSON.

Oh, my pet, run away at once!

[_She moves to the settee on the right. He pauses to
gaze at her._

BERTRAM.

You look exceedingly handsome this morning, mother.

LADY FILSON.

[_Gratified._] Do I, Bertram? [_Seating herself upon the settee, and again applying herself to the press-cuttings, as_ BERTRAM _goes to the glazed door._] In spite of my late hours!

BERTRAM.

[_Opening the door._] Here's my father----

[SIR RANDLE FILSON _enters, dressed in mourning. He is a
man of sixty-three, of commanding presence, with a head
resembling that of Alexandre Dumas Fils in the portrait
by Meissonier, and a bland, florid manner. He seems to
derive much satisfaction from listening to the rich
modulations of his voice._

SIR RANDLE.

Bertram, my boy! [_Kissing him upon the cheek._] Been riding, eh?

BERTRAM.

Yes. I'm just going to change, father.

SIR RANDLE.

That's right; don't risk catching cold, whatever you do. [_Seeing_ LADY FILSON _and coming forward._] Ah, your dear mother _is_ down!

[BERTRAM _goes out, closing the door._

LADY FILSON.

[_Beaming upon_ SIR RANDLE.] You haven't been long, Randle.

SIR RANDLE.

[_A cloud overshadowing his face._] I didn't remain for the Dead March, Winnie. [_Taking off his black gloves._] I need hardly have troubled to go at all, as it turned out.

LADY FILSON.

Why, dear?

SIR RANDLE.

The sad business was most abominably mismanaged. No reporters.

LADY FILSON.

No reporters!

SIR RANDLE.

Not a single pressman in the porch. [_Blowing into a glove._] Pfhh! Poor old Macfarlane! [_Pulling at his second glove._] The public will never learn the names of those who assembled, at serious inconvenience to themselves, to pay respect to his memory.

LADY FILSON.

Shocking!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Blowing._] Pfhh! [_Folding the gloves neatly._] I am almost glad, in the circumstances, that I didn't regard it as an event which laid me under an obligation to send flowers.

LADY FILSON.

[_With a change of tone._] Er--Randle----

SIR RANDLE.

[_Putting his gloves into his tail-pocket._] Yes, dear.

LADY FILSON.

[_Significantly._] Sir Timothy is upstairs.

SIR RANDLE.

Sir Timothy Barradell?

LADY FILSON.

[_Nodding._] With Ottoline, in her sitting-room.

SIR RANDLE.

Indeed?

LADY FILSON.

He brought a note for her half-an-hour ago, evidently asking her to receive him.

SIR RANDLE.

[_Going to_ LADY FILSON.] An early call!

LADY FILSON.

Extremely.

SIR RANDLE.

[_Sitting near her, in the arm-chair on the left of the settee, and pursing his lips._] It may mean nothing.

LADY FILSON.

Oh, nothing.

SIR RANDLE.

[_Examining his nails._] A nice, amiable fellow.

LADY FILSON.

Full of fine qualities, if I'm any judge of character.

SIR RANDLE.

None the worse for being self-made, Winnie.

LADY FILSON.

Not in _my_ estimation.

SIR RANDLE.

H'm, h'm, h'm, h'm----!

LADY FILSON.

[_Softly._] It wouldn't _sound_ bad, Randle.

SIR RANDLE.

[_Leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes._] "Lady Barradell."

LADY FILSON.

[_In the same way._] "Lady Barradell."

SIR RANDLE.

[_In a murmur, but with great gusto._] "A marriage is arranged and will shortly take place between Sir Timothy Barradell, Bart., of 16, The Albany, and Bryanstown Park, County Wicklow, and Ottoline, widow of the late Comte de Chaumié, only daughter of Sir Randle and Lady Filson, of 71, Ennismore Gardens, and Pickhurst, Bramsfold, Sussex."

LADY FILSON.

[_After a short pause, in a low voice._] Darling Ottoline! What a wedding she shall have!

[_Again there is a pause, and then_ SIR RANDLE _leaves
his chair and seats himself beside_ LADY FILSON.

SIR RANDLE.

[_Putting his arm round her, fondly._] Mother!

[_They look at one another, and he draws her to him and
kisses her. As he does so, the glazed door opens and_
WESTRIP _returns, carrying an illustrated-weekly._ LADY
FILSON _rises hastily and goes to the writing-table._

WESTRIP.

[_Handing her the paper._] It was in the servants' hall, Lady Filson.

LADY FILSON.

[_Laying the paper and the press-cuttings upon the writing-table, and sitting at the table and busying herself with her letters._] Thank you so much.

WESTRIP.

[_To_ SIR RANDLE.] Are you ready for me now, Sir Randle?

SIR RANDLE.

[_Abstractedly._] Er--is there anything of grave importance to-day, Mr. Westrip? I forget.

WESTRIP.

[_Coming to him._] Boxfield and Henderson, the photographers, are anxious to photograph you and Lady Filson for their series of "Notable People," Sir Randle.

SIR RANDLE.

[_Rolling his head from side to side._] Oh! Oh, dear; oh, dear!

LADY FILSON.

[_Wearily._] Oh, dear!

SIR RANDLE.

_How_ we are pestered, Lady Filson and I!

LADY FILSON.

Terrible!

SIR RANDLE.

No peace! No peace!

LADY FILSON.

Or privacy.

WESTRIP.

[_Producing a note-book from his pocket._] They will attend here any morning convenient to you and Lady Filson, Sir Randle. It won't take ten minutes.

SIR RANDLE.

[_To_ LADY FILSON, _resignedly._] Winnie----?

LADY FILSON.

[_Entering the appointment on a tablet._] Tuesday at eleven.

SIR RANDLE.

[_To_ WESTRIP.] Remind me.

WESTRIP.

[_Writing in his note-book._] Yes, Sir Randle.

SIR RANDLE.

And advise Madame de Chaumié and Mr. Bertram, with my love, of the appointment. Her ladyship and I will be photographed with our children grouped round us.

WESTRIP.

[_To_ SIR RANDLE.] Then there's the telegram from the _Daily Monitor_, Sir Randle----

SIR RANDLE.

[_Puffing himself out._] Ah, yes! The editor solicits my views upon--what is the subject of the discussion which is being carried on in his admirable journal, Mr. Westrip?----

WESTRIP.

"Should Women Marry under Thirty?"

SIR RANDLE.

H'm! [_Musingly._] Should Women Marry under Thirty? [_To_ WESTRIP.] Reply paid?

WESTRIP.

Forty-eight words.

SIR RANDLE.

[_Rising and strolling across to_ LADY FILSON, _as if seeking for inspiration._] Should Women Marry under Thirty? [_Humming._] H'm, h'm, h'm--! [_To_ LADY FILSON.] Winnie----?

LADY FILSON.

[_Looking up at him._] I was considerably under thirty when _we_ married, Randle.

SIR RANDLE.

[_Triumphantly._] Ha! [_Chuckling._] Ho, ho, ho! Capital! Ho, ho, ho! [_Patting_ LADY FILSON_'s shoulder._] Clever! Clever! [_To_ WESTRIP, _grandly._] There we have my response to the inquiry, Mr. Westrip. [_Closing his eyes again._] Sir Randle Filson's views are best expressed by the statement that Lady Filson was considerably under thirty when she did him the honour of--er--becoming his wife.

WESTRIP.

Excellent, sir.

SIR RANDLE.

[_Opening his eyes._] Pray amplify that in graceful language, Mr. Westrip--restricting yourself to forty-eight words--[_He breaks off, interrupted by the appearance of_ OTTOLINE _at the glazed door._] Ah, my darling!

OTTOLINE.

Good morning, Dad. [_To_ WESTRIP.] Good morning.

WESTRIP.

[_Shyly._] Good morning.

OTTOLINE.

[_To_ SIR RANDLE_--advancing a few steps, but leaving the door open._] Are you and mother busy?

SIR RANDLE.

Not at all.

LADY FILSON.

[_Who has turned in her chair at_ OTTOLINE_'s entrance._] Not at all, Otto.

SIR RANDLE.

[_To_ WESTRIP.] I will join you in the library, Mr. Westrip. [WESTRIP _withdraws at the door on the left, and_ SIR RANDLE _goes to_ OTTOLINE _and embraces her._] My dear child!

OTTOLINE.

[_In rather a strained voice._] Sir Timothy Barradell is here, Dad.

SIR RANDLE.

I heard he had called.

LADY FILSON.

So sweet of him to treat us informally!

OTTOLINE.

[_To_ LADY FILSON.] He would like to see you and Dad for a minute or two, mother----

LADY FILSON.

Charmed!

SIR RANDLE.

Delighted!

OTTOLINE.

Just to--just to bid you good-bye.

LADY FILSON.

Good-bye?

SIR RANDLE.

Good-bye?

OTTOLINE.

Yes; he's going away--abroad--for some months. [_With a motion of her head towards the hall._] He's in the hall. May I----?

LADY FILSON.

[_Rising._] Er--do.

SIR RANDLE.

Do.

OTTOLINE.

[_Returning to the door and calling._] Sir Timothy----!

[_There is a brief pause, during which_ SIR RANDLE _and_
LADY FILSON _interrogate each other silently, and then_
SIR TIMOTHY BARRADELL _enters. He is a well-knit,
pleasant-looking Irishman of about forty, speaking with
a slight brogue._

LADY FILSON.

[_Advancing to greet him._] My dear Sir Timothy!

SIR TIMOTHY.

[_As they shake hands._] And how's my lady this morning? Are you well?

OTTOLINE.

[_At the door._] I'll leave you----

SIR TIMOTHY.

[_Turning to her hastily._] Ah--! [_Taking her hand._] I'm not to see you again?

OTTOLINE.

[_Shaking her head._] No. [_Smiling._] We've said good-bye upstairs. [_Withdrawing her hand._] _Que Dieu vous protège!_ Good luck to you!

SIR TIMOTHY.

[_Ruefully._] Luck! [_In an undertone._] I've never had anything else till now; and now it's out entirely.

OTTOLINE.

[_Gently._] Shsssh----!

[_She goes into the hall and he stands watching her till
she disappears. Then he closes the door and faces_ LADY
FILSON _and_ SIR RANDLE.

SIR TIMOTHY.

[_Mournfully but good-humouredly._] Ha! _That's_ over.

LADY FILSON.

Over?

SIR RANDLE.

Over?

SIR TIMOTHY.

Over. [_Passing_ LADY FILSON _and shaking hands with_ SIR RANDLE.] It might be that it 'ud be more decent and appropriate for me to write you a letter, Sir Randle; but I'm not much of a hand at letter-writing, and I've your daughter's permission to tell you by word of mouth that--that she--[_to_ LADY FILSON] but perhaps you can guess, both of you----?

LADY FILSON.

Guess----?

SIR RANDLE.

Guess----?

SIR TIMOTHY.

[_Rumpling his hair._] The fact is, it isn't exactly easy or agreeable to describe what's occurred in plain terms.

SIR RANDLE.

[_Encouragingly._] Can't you--can't you give us a hint----?

LADY FILSON.

The merest hint----

SIR TIMOTHY.

Hint, is it! Ah, I can manage that. [_With a bold effort._] You're not to have me for your son-in-law. Is that hint enough?

LADY FILSON.

[_Under her breath._] Oh!

SIR RANDLE.

God bless me! Frankly, I had no conception----

LADY FILSON.

Nor I--the faintest.

SIR TIMOTHY.

And as I've received a great deal of kindness and hospitality in this house, I thought that, in common gratitude, I ought to explain the cause of my abrupt disappearance from your circle.

SIR RANDLE.

[_In a tone of deep commiseration._] I--I understand. You--you intend to----?

SIR TIMOTHY.

To take a trip round the world, to endeavour to recover some of the wind that's been knocked out of me.

SIR RANDLE.

[_Closing his eyes._] Distressing! Distressing!

LADY FILSON.

Most. [_Coming to_ SIR TIMOTHY, _feelingly._] Oh--oh, Sir Timothy----!

SIR TIMOTHY.

[_With sudden bitterness._] Ah, Sir Timothy, Sir Timothy, Sir Timothy! And what's the use of my baronetcy _now_, will you inform me--the baronetcy I bought and paid for, in hard cash, to better my footing in society? The mockery of it! Now that I've lost _her_, the one woman I shall ever love, I don't care a rap for my footing in society; [_walking away_] and anybody may have my baronetcy for tuppence!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Reprovingly._] My good friend----!

SIR TIMOTHY.

[_Turning to_ SIR RANDLE _and_ LADY FILSON.] And why not! The only advantage of my baronetcy, it strikes me, is that I'm charged double prices at every hotel I lay my head in, and am expected to shower gold on the waiters. [_Sitting on the settee on the right and leaning his head on his hand._] Oh, the mockery of it; the mockery of it!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Going to him._] If my profound sympathy--and Lady Filson's--[_to_ LADY FILSON] I may speak for you, Winnie----?

LADY FILSON.

Certainly.

SIR RANDLE.

[_To_ SIR TIMOTHY.] If our profound sympathy is the smallest consolation to you----

SIR TIMOTHY.

[_Emphatically, raising his head._] It is _not_. [_With a despairing gesture._] I'm broken-hearted, Sir Randle. That's what I am; I'm broken-hearted.

LADY FILSON.

[_Sitting in the low-backed arm-chair on the left._] Oh, dear!

SIR TIMOTHY.

[_Sighing._] If I'd had the pluck to declare myself sooner, it might have been different. [_Staring before him._] From the moment I first set eyes on her, at the dinner-party you gave to welcome her on her arrival in London--from that moment I was captured completely, body and soul. The sight of her as she stood in the drawing-room beside her mother, with her pretty, white face and her elegant figure, and a gown clinging to her that looked as though she'd been born in it--'twill never fade from me if I live to be as old as a dozen Methuselahs!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Pryingly._] Er--has Ottoline--I have no desire to probe an open wound--has she assigned any--reason----?

SIR TIMOTHY.

[_Rousing himself._] For rejecting me?

SIR RANDLE.

[_With a wave of the hand._] For----

LADY FILSON.

For not seeing her way clear----

SIR RANDLE.

To--er--in short--accept you?

SIR TIMOTHY.

She _has_.

LADY FILSON.

_Has_ she!

SIR TIMOTHY.

The best--and, for me, the worst--of reasons. There's another man in the case.

SIR RANDLE.

Another----?

LADY FILSON.

Another----!

SIR RANDLE.

[_To_ LADY FILSON.] Extraordinary!

LADY FILSON.

Bewildering.

SIR RANDLE.

We have been blind, Winnie.

LADY FILSON.

Absolutely.

SIR TIMOTHY.

And, whoever he may be, I trust he'll worship her as devoutly as I do, and treat her with half the gentleness _I'd_ have treated her with, had she selected _me_ for her Number Two.

SIR RANDLE.

[_Piously._] Amen! [_To_ LADY FILSON.] Winifred----?

LADY FILSON.

[_Rather fretfully._] Amen.

SIR TIMOTHY.

[_Rising._] And with that sentiment on my lips, and in every fibre of my body, I'll relieve you of my depressing company. [_Going to_ LADY FILSON, _who rises at his approach, and taking her hand._] My dear lady----

LADY FILSON.

[_Genuinely._] My dear Sir Timothy!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Moving to the glazed door._] Painful! Painful!

[_As_ SIR TIMOTHY _turns from_ LADY FILSON, BERTRAM
_reappears, in morning-dress, entering from the hall._

BERTRAM.

[_Drawing back on seeing_ SIR TIMOTHY.] Oh! [_To_ SIR RANDLE.] Am I intruding?

SIR RANDLE.

Come in, my boy. You're just in time to give a parting grasp of the hand to our friend here.

BERTRAM.

[_Advancing to_ SIR TIMOTHY, _surprised._] Parting----?

LADY FILSON.

[_To_ BERTRAM.] Sir Timothy is going abroad, Bertram.

BERTRAM.

Really? [_To_ SIR TIMOTHY.] Er--on business?

SIR TIMOTHY.

Well, not precisely on pleasure. [_Shaking hands with_ BERTRAM.] Good-bye to you.

BERTRAM.

[_Puzzled._] Good-bye. [SIR TIMOTHY _makes a final bow to_ LADY FILSON _and departs, followed by_ SIR RANDLE, _who leaves the door open._ BERTRAM _turns to_ LADY FILSON _inquiringly._] What----?

LADY FILSON.

[_Pointing to the open door._] H'sh!

[BERTRAM _shuts the door and_ LADY FILSON _seats herself
upon the settee on the right._

BERTRAM.

[_Coming to her._] What has happened, mother?

LADY FILSON.

What I conjectured. I was certain of it.

BERTRAM.

He _has_ proposed to my sister?

LADY FILSON.

Yes.

BERTRAM.

[_Struck by his mother's manner._] She has refused him?

LADY FILSON.

[_Nodding._] She's _éprise_ with another man.

BERTRAM.

Who is it?

LADY FILSON.

She didn't----

BERTRAM.

Is it Trefusis?

LADY FILSON.

_I_ believe it's Delacour.

BERTRAM.

[_Walking about._] Possibly! Possibly!

LADY FILSON.

[_Anxiously._] I do hope she realizes what she's doing, Bertram. Sir Timothy could buy them both up, with something to spare.

BERTRAM.

I agree, my dear mother; but it would have been horribly offensive to _us_, I mean t'say, to see the name of Ottoline's husband branded upon sides of bacon in the windows of the provision-shops.

LADY FILSON.

Oh, disgusting! [_Brightening._] How sensibly you look at things, darling!

BERTRAM.

[_Taking up a position before the fireplace._] Whereas George Delacour and Edward Trefusis are undeniably gentlemen--gentlemen by birth and breeding, I mean t'say.

LADY FILSON.

Trefusis is connected, through his brother, with the Northcrofts!

BERTRAM.

Quite so. If Ottoline married Edward, she would be Lady Juliet's sister-in-law.

LADY FILSON.

Upon my word, Bertie, I don't know _which_ of the two I'd rather it turned out to be!

[SIR RANDLE _returns, with a solemn countenance. He
closes the door and comes forward._

SIR RANDLE.

[_To_ LADY FILSON.] A melancholy morning, Winnie.

LADY FILSON.

[_Sighing._] Ahhh!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Producing a black-edged pocket-handkerchief and unfolding it._] Poor Macfarlane--and then _this_! [_Blowing his nose._] Upsetting! Upsetting! [_Glancing at_ BERTRAM.] Does Bertram----?

LADY FILSON.

I've told him.

BERTRAM.

My dear father, I cannot--I cannot profess to regret my sister's decision. I mean to _say_----!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Suddenly._] Nor I. [_In an outburst, pacing the room._] Nor I. I _must_ be candid. It's my nature to be candid. A damned tradesman!

BERTRAM.

Exactly. It shows my sister's delicacy and refinement, I mean t'say.

SIR RANDLE.

[_To_ LADY FILSON, _halting._] Who, in your opinion, Winnie----?

LADY FILSON.

_I'm_ inclined to think it's Mr. Delacour.

SIR RANDLE.

[_Resuming his walk._] So be it. [_Raising his arms._] If I am to lose my child a second time--so be it.

BERTRAM.

_I_ venture to suggest it may be Edward Trefusis.

SIR RANDLE.

[_To_ BERTRAM, _halting again._] My dear boy, in a matter of this kind, I fancy we can rely on your mother's wonderful powers of penetration.

BERTRAM.

[_Bowing._] Pardon, father.

LADY FILSON.

[_Closing her eyes._] "Mrs. George Delacour."

SIR RANDLE.

[_Partly closing his eyes and again resuming his walk._] "A marriage is arranged and will shortly take place between George Holmby Delacour, of--of--of----"

BERTRAM.

[_Closing his eyes._] "90, St. James's Street----"

SIR RANDLE.

[_Halting and opening his eyes._] One thing I heartily deplore, Winifred----

LADY FILSON.

[_Opening her eyes._] What is that, Randle?

SIR RANDLE.

Ottoline being a widow, there can be no bridesmaids; which deprives us of the happiness of paying a pretty compliment to the daughters of several families of distinction whom we have the privilege of numbering among our acquaintances.

LADY FILSON.

There can be no bridesmaids, strictly speaking; but a widow may be accompanied to the altar by a bevy of Maids of Honour.

SIR RANDLE.

Ah, yes! An equally good opportunity for an imposing--[_closing his eyes_] and reverential display! [_To_ LADY FILSON.] Lady Maundrell's girl Sybil, eh, Winnie?

LADY FILSON.

Decidedly. And Lady Eva Sherringham.

BERTRAM.

Lady Lilian and Lady Constance Foxe----

SIR RANDLE.

Lady Irene Pallant----

[LADY FILSON _rises and almost runs to the writing-table,
where she sits and snatches at a sheet of paper._ SIR
RANDLE _follows her and stands beside her._

BERTRAM.

[_Reclining upon the settee on the left._] Lady Blanche Finnis----

LADY FILSON.

[_Seizing her pen._] Wait; don't be so quick! [_Writing._] "Hon. Sybil Maundrell----"

[_The glazed door is opened softly and_ OTTOLINE
_enters. She pauses, looking at the group at the
writing-table._

SIR RANDLE.

[To LADY FILSON, as she writes.] Lady Eva Sherringham----

BERTRAM.

Ladies Lilian and Constance Foxe----

LADY FILSON.

[_Writing._] "Lady Eva Sherringham--Ladies Lilian and Constance Foxe----"

BERTRAM.

Lady Irene Pallant----

SIR RANDLE.

I _pray_ there may be no captious opposition from Ottoline.

LADY FILSON.

Surely she doesn't want to be married like a middle-class widow from Putney! [_Writing._] "Lady Blanche Finnis----"

BERTRAM.

If pages are permissible--to carry my sister's train, I mean t'say----

SIR RANDLE.

Pages--yes, yes----

BERTRAM.

There are the two Galbraith boys--little Lord Wensleydale and his brother Herbert.

LADY FILSON.

[_Writing._] Such picturesque children!

SIR RANDLE.

I doubt whether the bare civilities which have passed between ourselves and Lord and Lady Galbraith----

LADY FILSON.

They are country neighbours.

BERTRAM.

No harm in approaching them, my dear father. I mean to _say_----!

[OTTOLINE _shuts the door with a click._ SIR RANDLE
_and_ LADY FILSON _turn, startled, and_ LADY FILSON
_slips the list into a drawer._

SIR RANDLE.

[_Benignly._] Otto?

OTTOLINE.

[_In a steady voice._] Sorry to disturb you all over your elaborate preparations, Dad. I see Sir Timothy has saved me the trouble of breaking the news.

SIR RANDLE.

Y-you----?

OTTOLINE.

[_Nodding._] You were too absorbed. I couldn't help listening.

SIR RANDLE.

Ahem! Sir Timothy didn't _volunteer_ the information, Ottoline----

OTTOLINE.

_Peu m'importe!_ [_Advancing, smiling on one side of her mouth._] What a grand wedding you are planning for me! _Quel projets mirifiques!_

SIR RANDLE.

[_Embarrassed._] Your dear mother was--er--merely jotting down----

OTTOLINE.

[_Passing her hands over her face and walking to the settee on the right._] Ha, ha, ha, ha----!

LADY FILSON.

[_Rising and moving to the fireplace, complainingly._] Really, Ottoline----!

OTTOLINE.

[_Sitting upon the settee._] Ha, ha, ha----!

LADY FILSON.

[_To_ BERTRAM, _who is slowly getting to his feet._] Go away, Bertie darling.

OTTOLINE.

_Mais pourquoi?_ Bertie knows everything, obviously.

LADY FILSON.

Why shouldn't he, Otto? Your brother is as interested as we are----

OTTOLINE.

But of course! _Naturellement!_ [_With a shrug._] _C'est une affaire de famille._ [_To_ BERTRAM, _who is now at the door on the left, his hand on the door-handle._] Come back, Bertie. [_Repeating her wry smile._] I shall be glad to receive your congratulations with mother's and Dad's. [_To_ SIR RANDLE _and_ LADY FILSON.] Sit down, Dad; sit down, mother. [SIR RANDLE _sits in the chair on the left of the settee on the right,_ LADY FILSON _in the low-backed arm-chair, and_ BERTRAM _at the oblong table._] Are you very much surprised, dear people?

SIR RANDLE.

Surprised? Hardly.

LADY FILSON.

Poor Sir Timothy! No, we are hardly surprised, Ottoline.

OTTOLINE.

Ah, but I don't mean surprised at my--having made Sir Timothy unhappy; I mean surprised at hearing there is--someone else----

SIR RANDLE.

My dear child, _that_ surprises us even less.

LADY FILSON.

Your dear father and I, Ottoline, are not unaware of the _many_ eligible men who are--how shall I put it?--pursuing you with their attentions.

SIR RANDLE.

Parents are notoriously short-sighted; but they are not necessarily--er--what are the things?--tssh!--the creatures that flutter----

BERTRAM.

Bats, father.

SIR RANDLE.

[_To_ BERTRAM.] Thank you, my boy.

OTTOLINE.

[_In a rigid attitude._] It's cowardly of me perhaps, but I almost wish I had told Sir Timothy--a little more----

LADY FILSON.

Cowardly?

OTTOLINE.

So that he might have taken the edge off the announcement I'm going to make--and spared me----

SIR RANDLE.

The edge----?

LADY FILSON.

_Spared_ you--? [_Staring at_ OTTOLINE.] Ottoline, what on earth----!

OTTOLINE.

[_Relaxing._] Oh, I know I'm behaving as if I were a girl instead of a woman who has been married--a widow--free--independent--[_to_ SIR RANDLE] thanks to your liberality, Dad! But, being at home, I seem to have lost, in a measure, my sense of personal liberty----

SIR RANDLE.

[_Blandly but uneasily._] My child!

OTTOLINE.

That's _it_! Child! Now that I've returned to you, I'm still a child--still an object for you to fix your hopes and expectations upon. The situation has slipped back, in your minds, pretty much to what it was in the old days in the Avenue Montaigne. You may protest that it isn't so, but it _is_. [_Attempting a laugh._] That's why my knees are shaking at this moment, and my spine's all of a jelly! [_She rises and goes to the chair at the writing-table and grips the chair-rail. The others follow her apprehensively with their eyes._] I--I'm afraid I'm about to disappoint you.

LADY FILSON.

H-how?

SIR RANDLE.

Disap-point us?

OTTOLINE.

[_Abruptly._] What's the time, Dad?

SIR RANDLE.

[_Looking at a clock standing on a commode against the wall on the right._] Twenty minutes past eleven.

OTTOLINE.

He--he will be here at half-past. Don't be angry. I've asked him to come--to explain his position clearly to you and mother with regard to me. There's to be nothing underhand--_rien de secret_!

LADY FILSON.

A-asked whom?

OTTOLINE.

[_Throwing her head back._] Ho! You'll think I'm ushering in an endless string of lovers this morning! I promise you this is the last.

SIR RANDLE.

_Who_ is coming?

OTTOLINE.

[_Sitting at the writing-table and, her elbows on the table, supporting her chin on her fists._] Mr. Mackworth.

LADY FILSON.

[_After a pause._] Mackworth?

OTTOLINE.

Philip Mackworth.

LADY FILSON.

[_Dully._] Isn't he the journalist man you--you carried on with once, in Paris?

OTTOLINE.

What an expression, mother! Well--yes.

SIR RANDLE.

[_Simply._] Good God!

OTTOLINE.

He doesn't write for the papers any longer.

LADY FILSON.

W-what----?

OTTOLINE.

A novelist chiefly.

LADY FILSON.

[_Faintly._] Oh!

SIR RANDLE.

Successful?

OTTOLINE.

It depends on what you call success.

SIR RANDLE.

_I_ call success what everybody calls success.

BERTRAM.

[_Rising, stricken._] There are novelists and novelists, I mean t'say.

OTTOLINE.

Don't imagine that I am apologizing for him, please, in the slightest degree; but no, he _hasn't_ been successful up to the present, in the usual acceptation of the term.

LADY FILSON.

[_Searching for her handkerchief._] Where--where have you----?

OTTOLINE.

I met him yesterday at Robbie Roope's, at lunch. [LADY FILSON _finds her handkerchief and applies it to her eyes._] Oh, there's no need to cry, mother dear. For mercy's sake----!

LADY FILSON.

Oh, Otto! [_Rising and crossing to the settee on the right, whimpering._] Oh, Randle! [_To_ BERTRAM, _who comes to her._] Oh, my boy!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Gazing blinkingly at the ceiling as_ LADY FILSON _sinks upon the settee._] Incredible! Incredible!

BERTRAM.

[_Sitting beside_ LADY FILSON, _dazed._] My dear mother----!

OTTOLINE.

[_Starting up._] Oh, do try to be understanding and sympathetic! Mr. Mackworth is a high-souled, noble fellow. If I'd been honest with myself, I should have married him ten years ago. To me this is a golden dream come true. Recollect my bitter experience of the _other_ sort of marriage! [_Walking away to the fireplace._] Why grudge me a spark of romance in my life!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Raising his hands._] Romance!

LADY FILSON.

[_To_ SIR RANDLE _and_ BERTRAM.] Just now she was resenting our considering her a child!

OTTOLINE.

[_Looking down upon the flowers in the grate._] Romance doesn't belong to youth, mother. Youth is greedy for reality--the toy that feels solid in its fingers. _I_ was, and bruised myself with it. After such a lesson as I've had, one yearns for something less tangible--something that lifts one morally out of oneself--an ideal----!

SIR RANDLE.

Ha! An extract from a novel of Mr. Mackworth's apparently!

LADY FILSON.

[_Harshly._] Ha, ha, ha, ha----!

OTTOLINE.

[_Turning sharply and coming forward._] Sssh! Don't you sneer, mother! Don't you sneer, Dad! [_Her eyes flashing._] _C'est au-dessus de vous de sentir ce qu'il y a d'élevé et de grand!_ [_Fiercely._] _Tenez! Qu'il vous plaise ou non----!_

[_She is checked by the entrance of_ UNDERWOOD _from the
hall._

UNDERWOOD.

[_Addressing the back of_ LADY FILSON_'s head._] Mr. Philip Mackworth, m'lady.

LADY FILSON.

[_Straightening herself._] Not for me. [_Firmly._] For Madame de Chaumié.

UNDERWOOD.

I beg pardon, m'lady. The gentleman inquired for your ladyship----

OTTOLINE.

[_To_ UNDERWOOD.] In the drawing-room--[_with a queenly air_] no, in my own room.

UNDERWOOD.

[_To_ OTTOLINE.] Yes, mad'm.

[UNDERWOOD _withdraws._

OTTOLINE.

[_Approaching_ SIR RANDLE _and_ LADY FILSON.] Dad--mother----?

LADY FILSON.

Your father may do as he chooses. [_Rising and crossing to the writing-table, where she sits and prepares to write._] I have letters to answer.

OTTOLINE.

[_To_ SIR RANDLE.] Dad----?

SIR RANDLE.

[_Rising._] Impossible--impossible. [_Marching to the fireplace._] I cannot act apart from your dear mother. [_His back to the fireplace, virtuously._] I never act apart from your dear mother.

OTTOLINE.

_Comme vous voudrez!_ [_Moving to the glazed door and there pausing._] You _won't_----?

[SIR RANDLE _blinks at the ceiling again._ LADY FILSON
_scribbles audibly with a scratchy pen._ OTTOLINE _goes
out, closing the door._

BERTRAM.

[_Jumping up as the door shuts--in an expostulatory tone._] Good heavens! My dear father--my dear mother----!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Coming to earth._] Eh?

BERTRAM.

[_Agitatedly._] My sister will pack her trunks and be off to an hotel if you're not careful. She won't stand this, I mean t'say. There'll be a marriage at the registrar's, or some ghastly proceeding--a scandal--all kinds of gossip----!

LADY FILSON.

[_Throwing down her pen and rising--holding her heart._] Oh----!

BERTRAM.

[_With energy._] I mean to say----!

SIR RANDLE.

[_To_ LADY FILSON, _blankly._] Winnie----?

LADY FILSON.

R-Randle----?

SIR RANDLE.

[_Biting his nails._] He's right. [BERTRAM _hastens to the glazed door._] Dear Bertram is right.

BERTRAM.

[_Opening the door._] You'll see him----?

LADY FILSON.

Y-yes.

SIR RANDLE.

Yes. [BERTRAM _disappears._ SIR RANDLE _paces the room at the back, waving his arms._] Oh! Oh!

LADY FILSON.

[_Going to the fireplace._] I won't be civil to him, Randle! The impertinence of his visit! I won't be civil to him!

SIR RANDLE.

A calamity! An unmerited calamity!

LADY FILSON.

[_Dropping on to the settee before the fireplace._] She's mad! That's the only excuse I can make for her!

SIR RANDLE.

Stark mad! A calamity.

LADY FILSON.

You remember the man?

SIR RANDLE.

[_Taking a book from the rack on the oblong table and hurriedly turning its pages._] A supercilious, patronizing person--son of a wretched country parson--used to loll against the wall of your _salon_--with his nose in the air.

LADY FILSON.

[_Tearfully._] A stroke of bad fortune at last, Randle! Fancy! Everything has always gone so well with us----!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Suddenly, groaning._] Oh!

LADY FILSON.

[_Over her shoulder._] What is it? I can't bear much more----

SIR RANDLE.

He isn't even in _Who's Who_, Winnie!

[BERTRAM _returns, out of breath._

BERTRAM.

I caught her on the stairs. [_Closing the door._] She'll bring him down.

LADY FILSON.

[_Weakly._] I won't be civil to him. I refuse to be civil to him.

SIR RANDLE.

[_Replacing the book in the rack and sitting in the chair at the oblong table--groaning again._] Oh!

[_There is a short silence._ BERTRAM _slowly advances._

BERTRAM.

[_Heavily, drawing his hand across his brow._] Of course, my dear father--my dear mother--we must do our utmost to quash it--strain every nerve, I mean t'say, to stop my sister from committing this stupendous act of folly.

LADY FILSON.

[_Rocking herself to and fro._] Oh! Oh!

SIR RANDLE.

A beggarly author!

BERTRAM.

[_The picture of dejection._] But if the worst comes to the worst--if she's obdurate, I mean t'say--an alliance between Society and Literature--I suppose there's no actual disgrace in it.

SIR RANDLE.

A duffer--a duffer whose trash doesn't sell----!

LADY FILSON.

Taking advantage of a silly, emotional woman, to feather his nest!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Rising and pacing up and down between the glazed door and the settee on the right._] I shall have difficulty--[_shaking his uplifted fist_] I shall have difficulty in restraining myself from denouncing Mr. Mackworth in her presence!

BERTRAM.

[_Dismally._] As to the wedding, there's no reason that I can see--because a lady marries a literary man, I mean t'say--why the function should be a shabby one.

LADY FILSON.

[_Rising and moving about at the back distractedly._] That it sha'n't be! If we can't prevent my poor girl from throwing herself away, I'm determined her _wedding_ shall be smart and impressive!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Bitterly, with wild gestures._] "The interesting engagement is announced of Mr.--Mr.----"

BERTRAM.

[_Wandering to the fireplace, his chin on his breast._] Philip, father.

SIR RANDLE.

"--Mr. Philip Mackworth, the well-known novelist, to Ottoline, widow of the late Comte de Chaumié--[_peeping into the hall through the side of one of the curtains of the glazed door--his voice dying to a mutter_] only daughter of Sir Randle and Lady Filson----"

LADY FILSON.

"Mrs.--Philip--Mackworth"! Ha, ha, ha! Mrs. Philip Nobody!

BERTRAM.

[_Joining her._] Perhaps it would be wiser, mother, for me to retire while the interview takes place.

LADY FILSON.

[_Falling upon his neck._] Oh, my dear boy----!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Getting away from the door._] They're coming!

BERTRAM.

[_Quickly._] I'm near you if you want me, I mean t'say----

[_He goes out at the door on the left._ LADY FILSON
_hastily resumes her seat at the writing-table, and_ SIR
RANDLE, _pulling himself together, crosses to the
fireplace. The glazed door opens and_ OTTOLINE _appears
with_ PHILIP.

OTTOLINE.

[_Quietly._] Mr. Mackworth, mother--Dad----

PHILIP.

[_Advancing to_ LADY FILSON _cordially._] How do you do, Lady Filson?

LADY FILSON.

[_Giving him a reluctant hand and eyeing him askance with mingled aversion and indignation._] H-how do you do?

PHILIP.

This is very good of you. [_Bowing to_ SIR RANDLE.] How are you, Sir Randle?

SIR RANDLE.

[_His head in the air, severely._] How do you do, Mr. Mackworth?

PHILIP.

[_Breaking the ice._] We--we meet after many years----

SIR RANDLE.

Many.

LADY FILSON.

[_Still examining_ PHILIP.] M-many.

PHILIP.

And--if you've ever bestowed a thought on me since the old Paris days--in a way you can scarcely have expected.

LADY FILSON.

[_Turning to the writing-table to conceal her repugnance._] Scarcely.

SIR RANDLE.

Scarcely.

PHILIP.

[_To_ SIR RANDLE.] Oh, I am not vain enough, Sir Randle, to flatter myself that what you have heard from Ottoline gives you and Lady Filson unmixed pleasure. On the contrary----

LADY FILSON.

[_Gulping._] Pleasure! [_Unable to repress herself._] Unmixed--! Ho, ho, ho, ho----!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Restraining her._] Winifred----!

OTTOLINE.

[_Coming to_ LADY FILSON _and touching her gently--in a low voice._] Mother----!

PHILIP.

[_Smiling at_ OTTOLINE _apologetically._] It's my fault; I provoked that. [_Walking away to the right._] I expressed myself rather clumsily, I'm afraid.

SIR RANDLE.

[_Expanding his chest and advancing to_ PHILIP.] I gather from my daughter, Mr. Mackworth, that you are here for the purpose of "explaining your position" in relation to her. I believe I quote her words accurately----

OTTOLINE.

[_Moving to the fireplace._] Yes, Dad.

PHILIP.

That is so, Sir Randle--if you and Lady Filson will have the patience----

[SIR RANDLE _motions_ PHILIP _to the settee on the
right._ PHILIP _sits. Then_ OTTOLINE _sits on the settee
before the fireplace, and_ SIR RANDLE _in the arm-chair
by_ PHILIP. LADY FILSON _turns in her chair to listen._

SIR RANDLE.

[_To_ PHILIP, _majestically._] Before you embark upon your explanation, permit me to define _my_ position--mine and Lady Filson's. [PHILIP _nods._] I am going to make a confession to you; and I should like to feel that I am making it as one gentleman to another. [PHILIP _nods again._] Mr. Mackworth, Lady Filson and I are ambitious people. Not for ourselves. For ourselves, all we desire is rest and retirement--[_closing his eyes_] if it were possible, obscurity. But where our children are concerned, it is different; and, to be frank--I _must_ be frank--we had hoped that, in the event of Ottoline remarrying, she would contract such a marriage as is commonly described as brilliant.

PHILIP.

[_Dryly._] Such a marriage as her marriage to Monsieur de Chaumié, for example.

SIR RANDLE.

[_Closing his eyes._] _De mortuis_, Mr. Mackworth! I must decline----

PHILIP.

I merely wished, as a basis of argument, to get at your exact interpretation of brilliancy.

SIR RANDLE.

[_Dismissing the point with a wave of the hand._] It is easy for you, therefore, as you have already intimated, to judge what are our sensations at receiving my daughter's communication.

PHILIP.

[_Nodding._] They are distinctly disagreeable.

SIR RANDLE.

[_Conscientiously._] They are--I won't exaggerate--I mustn't exaggerate--they are not far removed from dismay.

LADY FILSON.

Utter dismay.

SIR RANDLE.

[_Shifting his chair--to_ PHILIP.] I learn--I learn from Ottoline that you have forsaken the field of journalism, Mr. Mackworth, and now devote yourself exclusively to creative work? [_Another nod from_ PHILIP.] But you have not--to use my daughter's phrase--up to the present--er----

PHILIP.

[_Nursing his leg._] Please go on.

SIR RANDLE.

You have not been eminently successful?

PHILIP.

Not yet. Not with the wide public. No; not yet.

SIR RANDLE.

Forgive me--any private resources?

PHILIP.

None worth mentioning. Two-hundred-a-year, left me by an old aunt.

LADY FILSON.

[_Under her breath._] Ho----!

SIR RANDLE.

[_To her._] My dear----! [_To_ PHILIP.] On the other hand, Mr. Mackworth, as you are probably aware, my daughter is--no, I won't say a rich woman--I will say comfortably provided for; _not_ by the late Comte de Chaumié, but by myself. [_Closing his eyes._] I have never been a niggardly parent, Mr. Mackworth.

OTTOLINE.

[_Softly, without turning._] Indeed, no, Dad!

PHILIP.

[_To_ SIR RANDLE, _bluntly._] Yes, I _do_ know of the settlement you made upon Ottoline on her marriage, and of your having supplemented it when she became a widow. Very handsome of you.

LADY FILSON.

[_As before._] Ha!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Leaning back in his chair._] _There_ then, my dear Mr. Mackworth, is the state of the case. Ottoline is beyond our control----

LADY FILSON.

Unhappily.

SIR RANDLE.

If she _will_ deal this crushing blow to her mother and myself, we must bow our heads to it. But, for the sake of your self-esteem, I beg you to reflect! [_Partly to_ PHILIP, _partly at_ OTTOLINE.] What construction would be put upon a union between you and Madame de Chaumié--between a lady of means and--I _must_ be cruel--I _must_ be brutal--a man who is--commercially at least--a failure?

LADY FILSON.

There _could_ only be one construction put upon it!

OTTOLINE.

[_Rising._] Mother----!

PHILIP.

[_To_ SIR RANDLE, _calmly._] Oh, but--ah, Ottoline hasn't told you----!

OTTOLINE.

[_To_ PHILIP.] No, I hadn't time, Philip----

PHILIP.

My dear Sir Randle--[_rising and going to_ LADY FILSON]--my dear Lady Filson--let me dispel your anxiety for the preservation of my self-esteem. Ottoline and I have no idea of getting married yet awhile.

OTTOLINE.

No, mother.

LADY FILSON.

When, pray----?

PHILIP.

We have agreed to wait until I have ceased to be--commercially--a failure.

OTTOLINE.

[_To_ SIR RANDLE _and_ LADY FILSON.] Until he has obtained public recognition; [_coming forward_] until, in fact, even the member's of one's own family, Dad, can't impute unworthy motives.

SIR RANDLE.

[_To_ PHILIP, _incredulously--rising._] Until you have obtained public recognition, Mr. Mackworth?

PHILIP.

[_Smiling._] Well, it may sound extravagant----

LADY FILSON.

Grotesque!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Walking about on the extreme right._] Amazing!

OTTOLINE.

Why grotesque; why amazing? [_Sitting in the low-backed arm-chair._] All that is amazing about it is that Philip should lack the superior courage which enables a man, in special circumstances, to sink his pride and ignore ill-natured comments.

PHILIP.

[_To_ LADY FILSON.] At any rate, this is the arrangement that Ottoline and I have entered into; and I suggest, with every respect, that you and Sir Randle should raise no obstacle to my seeing her under your roof occasionally.

LADY FILSON.

As being preferable to hole-and-corner meetings in friends' houses----!

OTTOLINE.

[_Coolly._] Or under lamp-posts in the streets--yes, mother.

LADY FILSON.

[_Rising and crossing to the round table._] Ottoline----!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Bearing down upon_ PHILIP.] May I ask, Mr. Mackworth, how long you have been following your precarious profession? Pardon my ignorance. My reading is confined to our great journals; and _there_ your name has escaped me.

PHILIP.

Oh, I've been at it for nearly ten years.

LADY FILSON.

Ten years!

PHILIP.

[_To_ SIR RANDLE.] I began soon after I left Paris.

SIR RANDLE.

And what ground, sir, have you for anticipating that you will _ever_ achieve popularity as a writer?

LADY FILSON.

[_Sitting in the chair by the round table._] Preposterous!

OTTOLINE.

[_Stamping her foot._] Mother----! [_To_ SIR RANDLE.] Philip has high expectations of his next novel, Dad. It is to be published in the autumn--September.

SIR RANDLE.

[_To_ PHILIP.] And should that prove no more successful with the "wide public" than those which have preceded it----?

PHILIP.

Then I--then I fling another at 'em.

SIR RANDLE.

Which would occupy you----?

PHILIP.

Twelve months.

LADY FILSON.

And if _that_ fails----!

PHILIP.

[_Smiling again, but rather constrainedly._] Ah, you travel too quickly for me, Lady Filson--you and Sir Randle! You heap disaster on disaster----

SIR RANDLE.

If _that_ fails, another twelve-months' labour!

LADY FILSON.

While my daughter is wasting the best years of her life!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Indignantly._] Really, Mr. Mackworth! [_Throwing himself upon the settee on the right._] Really! I appeal to you! Is this fair?

LADY FILSON.

Is it fair to Ottoline?

OTTOLINE.

_Absolument!_ So that it satisfies me to spend the best years of my life in this manner, I don't see what anybody has to complain of. _Mon Dieu!_ I am relieved to think that some of my best years are still mine to squander!

SIR RANDLE.

[_To_ PHILIP, _who is standing by the writing-table in thought, a look of disquiet on his face--persistently._] Mr. Mackworth----!

OTTOLINE.

[_Rising impatiently._] My dear Dad--my dear mother--I propose that we postpone this discussion until Mr. Mackworth's new book _has_ failed to attract the public, [_crossing to_ SIR RANDLE] and that in the meantime he sha'n't be scowled at when he presents himself in Ennismore Gardens. [_Seating herself beside_ SIR RANDLE _and slipping her arm through his._] Dad----!

LADY FILSON.

[_To_ PHILIP.] Mr. Mackworth----!

PHILIP.

[_Rousing himself and turning to_ SIR RANDLE _and_ LADY FILSON_--abruptly._] Look here, Sir Randle! Look here, Lady Filson! I own that this arrangement between Ottoline and me is an odd one. It was arrived at yesterday impulsively; and, in her interests, there _is_ a good deal to be said against it.

LADY FILSON.

There's nothing to be said _for_ it. Oh----!

SIR RANDLE.

[_To_ LADY FILSON.] Winifred--[_To_ PHILIP.] Well, Mr. Mackworth?

PHILIP.

Well, Sir Randle, I--I'm prepared to take a sporting chance. It may be that I am misled by the sanguine temperament of the artist, who is apt to believe that his latest production will shake the earth to its foundation. I've gammoned myself before into such a belief, but--[_resolutely_] I'll stake everything on my next book! I give you my word that if it isn't a success--an indisputable popular success--I will join you both, in all sincerity, in urging Ottoline to break with me. Come! Does that mollify you?

[_There is a short silence._ SIR RANDLE _and_ LADY
FILSON _look at each other in surprise and_ OTTOLINE
_stares at_ PHILIP _open-mouthed._

OTTOLINE.

Philip----!

PHILIP.

[_To_ SIR RANDLE.] Sir Randle----?

SIR RANDLE.

[_To_ LADY FILSON.] Winnie----?

LADY FILSON.

[_In a softer tone._] It certainly seems to me that Mr. Mackworth's undertaking--as far as it goes----

OTTOLINE.

[_With a queer laugh._] Ha, ha, ha! As far as it goes, mother! [_Rising, thoughtfully._] Doesn't it go a little _too_ far? [_Contracting her brows._] It disposes of _me_ as if I were of no more account than a sawdust doll! [_To_ PHILIP.] Ah, traitor! [_In a low voice._] _Vos promesses à une femme sont sans valeur!_

PHILIP.

[_Taking her hands reassuringly._] No, no----!

OTTOLINE.

[_Withdrawing her hands._] Zut! [_Moving slowly towards the glazed door._] You have acquitted yourself bravely, _mon cher Monsieur Philippe_! [_Shrugging her shoulders._] Say good-bye and let me turn you out in disgrace.

PHILIP.

[_Deprecatingly._] Ha, ha, ha! [_Going to_ LADY FILSON.] Good-bye, Lady Filson. [_She rises and shakes hands with him._] Have I bought my right of _entrée_? I may ring your bell at discreet intervals till the end of the season?

LADY FILSON.

[_Stiffly._] Ottoline is her own mistress, Mr. Mackworth; [_more amiably_] but apart from her, you will receive a card from me--music--Tuesday, July the eighth.

[_He bows and she crosses to the fireplace. Then he
shakes hands with_ SIR RANDLE, _who has risen and is
standing in the middle of the room._

PHILIP.

[_To_ SIR RANDLE.] Good-bye.

SIR RANDLE.

[_Detaining_ PHILIP, _searchingly._] Er--pardon me--this new novel of yours, on which you place so much reliance--pray don't think me curious----

OTTOLINE.

[_Suddenly._] Ha! [_Coming to the back of the settee on the right, her eyes gleaming scornfully at_ SIR RANDLE.] Tell my father, Philip--tell him----

PHILIP.

[_Shaking his head at her and frowning._] Otto----

OTTOLINE.

Do; as you told it to me yesterday. [_Satirically._] It will help him to understand why your name has escaped him in the great journals!

SIR RANDLE.

Any confidence you may repose in me, Mr. Mackworth----

OTTOLINE.

[_Prompting_ PHILIP.] It's called--_allons! racontez donc!_----

PHILIP.

[_After a further look of protest at_ OTTOLINE--_to_ SIR RANDLE, _hesitatingly_.] It's called "The Big Drum," Sir Randle.

SIR RANDLE.

[_Elevating his eyebrows._] "The Big Drum"? [_With an innocent air._] Military?

PHILIP.

No; social.

SIR RANDLE.

Social?

PHILIP.

[_Leaning against the arm-chair on the left of the settee on the right._] It's an attempt to portray the struggle for notoriety--for self-advertisement--we see going on around us to-day.

SIR RANDLE.

Ah, yes; lamentable!

PHILIP.

[_Deliberately, but losing himself in his subject as he proceeds._] It shows a vast crowd of men and women, sir, forcing themselves upon public attention without a shred of modesty, fighting to obtain it as if they are fighting for bread and meat. It shows how dignity and reserve have been cast aside as virtues that are antiquated and outworn, until half the world--the world that should be orderly, harmonious, beautiful--has become an arena for the exhibition of vulgar ostentation or almost superhuman egoism--a cockpit resounding with raucous voices bellowing one against the other!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Closing his eyes._] A terrible picture!

LADY FILSON.

[_Closing her eyes._] Terrible.

PHILIP.

It shows the bishop and the judge playing to the gallery, the politician adopting the methods of the cheap-jack, the duchess vying with the puffing draper; it shows how even true genius submits itself to conditions that are accepted and excused as "modern," and is found elbowing and pushing in the hurly-burly. It shows how the ordinary decencies of life are sacrificed to the paragraphist, the interviewer, and the ghoul with the camera; how the home is stripped of its sanctity, blessed charity made a vehicle for display, the very grave-yard transformed into a parade ground; while the outsider looks on with a sinking of the vitals because the drumstick is beyond his reach and the bom-bom-bom is not for him! It shows----! [_Checking himself and leaving the arm-chair with a short laugh._] Oh, well, that's the setting of my story, Sir Randle! I won't inflict the details upon you.

SIR RANDLE.

Er--h'm--[_expansively_] an excellent theme, Mr. Mackworth; a most promising theme! [_To_ LADY FILSON.] Eh, Winifred?

LADY FILSON.

[_Politely._] Excellent; quite, quite excellent!

PHILIP.

[_Bowing to_ LADY FILSON _and going to_ OTTOLINE.] Thank you.

OTTOLINE.

[_To_ PHILIP, _glowingly_.] Splendid! [_Laying her hand upon his arm._] You have purged your disgrace. [_Softly._] You may come and see me to-morrow.

PHILIP.

[_To_ OTTOLINE.] Ha, ha----!

SIR RANDLE.

[_In response to a final bow from_ PHILIP.] Good-bye.

LADY FILSON.

_Good_-bye.

[OTTOLINE _opens the glazed door and_ PHILIP _follows
her into the hall. Immediately the door is shut_, LADY
FILSON _hurries to_ SIR RANDLE.

SIR RANDLE.

[_In high spirits._] Winnie----!

LADY FILSON.

_That_ will never be a popular success, Randle!

SIR RANDLE.

Never. An offensive book----!

LADY FILSON.

Ho, ho, ho, ho----!

SIR RANDLE.

A grossly offensive book!

LADY FILSON.

[_Anxiously_.] He--he'll keep his word----?

SIR RANDLE.

To join us in persuading her to drop him----

LADY FILSON.

If it fails?

SIR RANDLE.

[_With conviction._] Yes. [_Walking about._] Yes. We _must_ be just. We owe it to ourselves to be just to Mr. Mackworth. He is not altogether devoid of gentlemanlike scruples.

LADY FILSON.

[_Breathlessly._] And--and _she_----?

SIR RANDLE.

I trust--I trust that my child's monstrous infatuation will have cooled down by the autumn.

LADY FILSON.

[_Supporting herself by the chair at the writing-table, her hand to her heart--exhausted._] Oh! Oh, dear!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Returning to her._] I conducted the affair with skill and tact, Winifred?

LADY FILSON.

[_Rallying._] It was masterly--[_kissing him_] masterly----

SIR RANDLE.

[_Proudly._] Ha!

[_She sits at the writing-table again and takes up her
pen as_ SIR RANDLE _stalks to the door on the left._

LADY FILSON.

Masterly!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Opening the door._] Bertram--Bertram, my boy--Bertie----!

[_He disappears._ LADY FILSON _scribbles violently._

END OF THE SECOND ACT

THE THIRD ACT

_The scene represents two rooms, connected by a pair of wide doors, in a set of residential chambers on the upper floor of a house in Gray's Inn. The further room is the dining-room, the nearer room a study. In the wall at the back of the dining-room are two windows; in the right-hand wall is a door leading to the kitchen; and in the left-hand wall a door opens from a vestibule, where, opposite this door, there is another door which gives on to the landing of the common stair._

_In the study, a door in the right-hand wall admits to a bedroom; in the wall facing the spectator is a door opening into the room from the vestibule; and beyond the door on the right, in a piece of wall cutting off the corner of the room, is the fireplace. A bright fire is burning._

_The rooms are wainscotted to the ceilings and have a decrepit, old-world air, and the odds and ends of furniture--all characteristic of the dwelling of a poor literary man of refined taste--are in keeping with the surroundings. In the dining-room there are half-a-dozen chairs of various patterns, a sideboard or two, a corner-cupboard, a "grandfather" clock, and a large round table. In the study, set out into the room at the same angle as the fireplace, is a writing-table. A chair stands at the writing-table, its back to the fire, and in the front of the table is a well-worn settee. On the left of the settee is a smaller table, on which are an assortment of pipes, a box of cigars and another of cigarettes, a tobacco-jar, an ash-tray, and a bowl of matches; and on the left of the table is a capacious arm-chair. There is an arm-chair on either side of the fireplace; and against the right-hand wall, on the nearer side of the bedroom door, is a cabinet._