Chapter IV: Part 4

He was prepared to prove that the books _have been_ manufactured and delivered, I mean t'say----

DUNNING.

And in the second place, on the question of expense, the speculation was a tolerably safe one.

LADY FILSON.

[_Keenly._] Speculation?

DUNNING.

Madarme dee Showmeeay being, according to my instructions--[_to_ LADY FILSON, _after a glance in_ OTTOLINE_'s direction_] no offence, ladies--[_to_ SIR RANDLE _and_ ROOPE] Madarme dee Showmeeay being what is usually termed a catch, Mr. Mackworth would have been in a position, after his marriage, to reimburse Titterton----

[PHILIP _starts to his feet with a cry of rage._

PHILIP.

Oh----!

ROOPE.

[_Jumping up and hurrying to_ PHILIP_--pacifying him._] My dear Phil--my _dear_ old chap----

PHILIP.

[_Grasping_ ROOPE_'s arm._] Robbie----!

[SIR RANDLE _rises and goes to_ LADY FILSON. _She also
rises as he approaches her. They gaze at each other with
expressionless faces._

ROOPE.

[_To_ PHILIP.] Where does Titterton live?

PHILIP.

Gordon Square.

ROOPE.

[_Pointing to the telephone._] Telephone--have him round----

PHILIP.

He's not in London.

ROOPE.

Not----?

PHILIP.

He's gone to the Riviera--left this morning. [_Crossing to_ SIR RANDLE _and_ LADY FILSON_--appealingly._] Lady Filson--Sir Randle--_you_ don't believe that Titterton and I could be guilty of such an arrant piece of knavery, do you? Ho, ho, ho! It's preposterous.

SIR RANDLE.

[_Constrainedly._] Frankly--I must be frank--I hardly know _what_ to believe.

LADY FILSON.

[_Pursing her mouth._] We--we hardly know _what_ to believe.

PHILIP.

[_Leaving them._] Ah----!

ROOPE.

[_Who has dropped into the chair by the smoking-table--to_ SIR RANDLE.] Sir Randle--dear excellent friend--let us meet Mr. Dunning to-morrow at Messrs. Hopwood's in Carmichael Lane--we three--you and I and Mackworth----

PHILIP.

[_Pacing up and down between the table on the left and the bookcase._] Yes, yes--before I wire to Titterton--or see Curtis, his manager----

ROOPE.

[_Over his shoulder, to_ DUNNING.] Hey, Mr. Dunning?

DUNNING.

Pleasure.

[_While this has been going on,_ DUNNING _has put his
note-book away and risen, gathering up his hat and
overcoat as he does so._ BERTRAM _is now assisting him
into his coat._

SIR RANDLE.

[_Advancing a step or two._] At what hour----?

DUNNING.

[_Briskly._] Ten-thirty suit you, gentlemen?

SIR RANDLE, PHILIP, _and_ ROOPE.

[_Together._] Half-past-ten.

ROOPE.

[_Scribbling with a pocket-pencil on his shirt-cuff._] 6, Carmichael Lane, Walbrook----

DUNNING.

[_Pulling down his under-coat._] I'll be there.

ROOPE.

[_Lowering his hands suddenly and leaning back in his chair, as if about to administer a poser._] By the way, Mr. Dunning, you tell us you have a strong conviction that Messrs. Hopwood & Co. are a myth, and their offices a sham--[_caustically_] may I ask whether you've tried to ascertain who _is_ the actual tenant of the room and cellar in Carmichael Lane?

BERTRAM.

[_Sniggering._] Why, Titterton, of course. I mean to _say_----!

ROOPE.

[_Waving_ BERTRAM _down._] Dear excellent friend----!

DUNNING.

[_Taking up his hat, which he has laid upon the smoking-table--to_ ROOPE, _with a satisfied air._] Mr. Sillitoe's got that in hand, sir. What I _have_ ascertained is that a young feller strolls in occasionally and smokes a cigarette----

BERTRAM.

And pokes about in the cellar----

DUNNING.

_Calls_ himself Hopwood. But the name written on the lining of his hat--[_to_ BERTRAM, _carelessly_] oh, I forgot to mention this to you, Mr. Filson. [_Producing his memorandum-book again._] Old mother Sweasy was examining the young man's outdoor apparel the other day. [_Turning the pages with his wet thumb._] The name on the lining of his hat is--[_finding the entry_] is "Westrip." "Leonard Westrip."

BERTRAM.

Westrip?

SIR RANDLE.

Leonard--Westrip?

LADY FILSON.

Mr. Westrip!

SIR RANDLE.

[_To_ DUNNING, _blinking._] Mr. Westrip is my secretary.

BERTRAM.

[_To_ DUNNING, _agape._] He's my father's secretary.

DUNNING.

[_To_ SIR RANDLE.] Your seckert'ry?

PHILIP.

[_Coming to the nearer end of the settee on the left._] The--the--the fair boy I've seen in Ennismore Gardens!

ROOPE.

[_Rising and joining_ SIR RANDLE _and_ LADY FILSON_--expressing his amazement by flourishing his arms._] Oh, my dear excellent friends----!

LADY FILSON.

[_To_ SIR RANDLE.] Randle--what--what next----!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Closing his eyes._] Astounding! Astounding!

DUNNING.

[_Looking about him, rather aggressively._] Well, I seem to have accidentally dropped a bombshell among you! Will any lady or gentleman kindly oblige with some particulars----? [_To_ OTTOLINE, _who checks him with an imperious gesture--changing his tone._] I beg your pardon, madarme----

[OTTOLINE _has left her chair and come to the
writing-table, where, with a drawn face and downcast
eyes, she is now standing erect._

OTTOLINE.

[_To_ DUNNING, _repeating her gesture._] Stop! [_To_ LADY FILSON _and_ SIR RANDLE, _in a strained voice._] Mother--Dad----

[_Everybody looks at her, surprised at her manner._

LADY FILSON.

Otto dear----?

OTTOLINE.

I--I can't allow you all to be mystified any longer. I--I can clear this matter up.

SIR RANDLE.

You, my darling?

OTTOLINE.

[_Steadying herself by resting her finger-tips upon the table._] The--the explanation is that Mr. Westrip--[_with a wan smile_] poor boy--he would jump into the sea for me if I bade him--the explanation is that Mr. Westrip has been--helping me----

LADY FILSON.

_Helping_ you----?

SIR RANDLE.

Helping _you_----?

OTTOLINE.

[_Inclining her head._] Helping me. He--he---- [_Raising her eyes defiantly and confronting them all._] _Écoutez!_ Robbie Roope has asked who is the actual tenant of the cellar and room in Carmichael Lane. [_Breathing deeply._] _I_ am.

LADY FILSON.

[_Advancing a few steps._] _You_ are! N-n-nonsense!

OTTOLINE.

Mr. Westrip took the place for me--my arrangement with Titterton made it necessary----

LADY FILSON.

With Titterton! Then he--he _has_----?

OTTOLINE.

Yes. The thousands of copies--packed in the cases with the lying labels--_I_ have bought them--they're mine----

LADY FILSON.

Y-y-yours!

OTTOLINE.

I--I was afraid the book had failed--and I went to Titterton--and bargained with him----

LADY FILSON.

So--so everything--everything that your brother and Mr.--Mr. Dunning have surmised----?

OTTOLINE.

Everything, mother--except that I am the culprit, and Mr. Mackworth is the victim.

LADY FILSON.

Ottoline----!

OTTOLINE.

[_Passing her hand over her brow._] It--it's horrible of me to give Titterton away--but--what can I do?--[_She turns her back upon them sharply and, leaning against the table, searches for her handkerchief._] Oh! Need Mr. Dunning stay----?

[BERTRAM, _aghast, nudges_ DUNNING _and hurries to the
vestibule door._ DUNNING _follows him into the vestibule
on tiptoe. Slowly and deliberately_ PHILIP _moves to the
middle of the room and stands there with his hands
clenched, glaring into space._ SIR RANDLE, _his jaw
falling, sits in the chair on the extreme left._

LADY FILSON.

[_Touching_ PHILIP_'s arm sympathetically._] Oh, Philip----!

DUNNING.

[_To_ BERTRAM, _in a whisper._] Phiou! Rummy development this, Mr. Filson!

BERTRAM.

[_To_ DUNNING, _in the same way._] Awful. [_Opening the outer door._] I--I'll see you in the m-m-morning.

DUNNING.

Pleasure. [_Raising his voice._] Evening, ladies and gentlemen.

LADY FILSON.

[_Again sitting on the settee on the left, also searching for her handkerchief._] G-g-good night.

SIR RANDLE.

[_Weakly._] Good night.

ROOPE.

[_Who has wandered to the bookcase like a man in a trance._] Good night.

[DUNNING _disappears, and_ BERTRAM _closes the outer
door and comes back into the room. Shutting the
vestibule door, he sinks into the chair lately vacated
by_ DUNNING. _There is a silence, broken at length by a
low, grating laugh from_ PHILIP.

PHILIP.

Ha, ha, ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha----!

LADY FILSON.

[_Dolefully._] Oh, Ottoline--Ottoline----!

PHILIP.

Ha, ha, ha----!

OTTOLINE.

[_Creeping to the nearer end of the writing-table._] H'ssh! H'ssh! Philip--Philip----!

PHILIP.

[_Loudly._] Ho, ho, ho----!

OTTOLINE.

Don't! don't! [_Making a movement of entreaty towards him._] Phil--Phil----!

[_His laughter ceases abruptly and he looks her full in
the face._

PHILIP.

[_After a moment's pause, bitingly._] Thank you--thank you--[_turning from her and seating himself in the chair by the smoking-table and resting his chin on his fist_] thank you.

[_Again there is a pause, and then_ OTTOLINE _draws
herself up proudly and moves in a stately fashion
towards the vestibule door._

OTTOLINE.

[_At_ BERTRAM_'s side._] Bertram--my cloak----

[BERTRAM _rises meekly and fetches her cloak._

SIR RANDLE.

[_Getting to his feet and approaching_ PHILIP_--mournfully._] Your mother's wrap, also, Bertram.

LADY FILSON.

[_Rising._] Yes, let us all go home.

SIR RANDLE.

[_To_ PHILIP, _laying a hand on his shoulder._] My daughter has brought great humiliation upon us--upon her family, my dear Philip--by this--I must be harsh--by this unladylike transaction----

LADY FILSON.

I have never felt so ashamed in my life!

SIR RANDLE.

[_To_ PHILIP.] By-and-by I shall be better able to command language in which to express my profound regret. [_Offering his hand._] For the present--good night, and God bless you!

PHILIP.

[_Shaking_ SIR RANDLE_'s hand mechanically._] Good night.

[_As_ SIR RANDLE _turns away,_ LADY FILSON _comes to_
PHILIP. BERTRAM, _having helped_ OTTOLINE _with her
cloak, now brings_ LADY FILSON_'s wrap from the
vestibule._ SIR RANDLE _takes it from him, and_ BERTRAM
_then returns to the vestibule and puts on his
overcoat._

LADY FILSON.

[_To_ PHILIP, _who rises._] You must have us to dinner another time, Philip. If I eat a crust to-night it will be as much as I shall manage. [_Speaking lower, with genuine feeling._] Oh, my dear boy, don't be too cast down--over your clever book, I mean! [_Taking him by the shoulders._] It's a cruel disappointment for you--and you don't deserve it. May I----? [_She pulls him to her and kisses him._] Good night.

PHILIP.

[_Gratefully._] Good night.

[LADY FILSON _leaves_ PHILIP _and looks about for her
wrap._ SIR RANDLE _puts her into it and then goes into
the vestibule and wrestles with his overcoat._

BERTRAM.

[_Coming to_ PHILIP, _humbly._] M--M--Mackworth--I--I----

PHILIP.

[_Kindly._] No, no; don't you bother, old man----

BERTRAM.

I--I could kick myself, Mackworth, I could indeed. I've been a sneak and a cad, I mean t'say, and--and I'm properly paid out----

PHILIP.

[_Shaking him gently._] Why, what are you remorseful for? You've only brought out the truth, Bertie----

BERTRAM.

Yes, but I mean to _say_----!

PHILIP.

And _I_ mean to say that I'm in your debt for showing me that I've been a vain, credulous ass. Now be off and get some food. [_Holding out his hand._] Good night.

BERTRAM.

[_Wringing_ PHILIP_'s hand._] Good night, Mackworth. [_Turning from_ PHILIP _and seeing_ ROOPE, _who, anxiously following events, is standing by the chair on the extreme left._] Good night, Roope.

ROOPE.

G-g-good night.

LADY FILSON.

[_Half in the room and half in the vestibule--to_ ROOPE, _remembering his existence._] Oh, good night, Mr. Roope!

ROOPE.

Good night, dear Lady Filson.

SIR RANDLE.

[_In the vestibule._] Good night, Mr. Roope.

ROOPE.

Good night. Good night, dear excellent friends.

LADY FILSON.

[_To_ OTTOLINE, _who is lingering by the big doors._] Ottoline----

[LADY FILSON _and_ BERTRAM _join_ SIR RANDLE _in the
vestibule and_ SIR RANDLE _opens the outer door._
PHILIP, _his hands behind him and his chin on his
breast, has walked to the fireplace and is standing
there looking fixedly into the fire._ OTTOLINE _slowly
comes forward and fingers the back of the chair by the
smoking-table._

OTTOLINE.

Good night, Philip.

[_He turns to her, makes her a stiff, formal bow, and
faces the fire again._

ROOPE.

[_Advancing to her--under his breath._] Oh----!

OTTOLINE.

[_Giving him her hand._] Ah! [_With a plaintive shrug._] _Vous voyez! C'est fini après tout!_

ROOPE.

No, no----!

OTTOLINE.

[_Withdrawing her hand._] Pst! [_Throwing her head up._] Good night, Robbie.

[_With a queenly air she sweeps into the vestibule and
follows_ SIR RANDLE _and_ LADY FILSON _out on to the
landing._ BERTRAM _closes the vestibule door, and
immediately afterwards the outer door slams._

ROOPE.

[_To_ PHILIP, _in an agony._] No, no, Phil! It mustn't end like this! Good lord, man, reflect--consider what you're chucking away! You're mad--absolutely mad! [PHILIP _calmly presses a bell-push at the side of the fireplace._] I'll go after 'em--and talk to her. I'll talk to her. [_Running to the vestibule door and opening it._] Don't wait for me. [_Going into the vestibule and grabbing his hat and overcoat._] It's a tiff--a lovers' tiff! It's nothing but a lovers' tiff! [_Shutting the vestibule door, piteously._] Oh, my dear excellent friend----!

[JOHN _appears, opening one of the big doors a little
way. Again the outer door slams._

PHILIP.

[_To_ JOHN, _sternly._] Dinner.

JOHN.

[_Looking for the guests--dumbfoundered_] D-d-dinner, sir?

PHILIP.

Serve dinner.

JOHN.

[_His eyes bolting._] The--the--the ladies and gentlemen have gone, sir!

PHILIP.

Yes. I'm dining alone.

[JOHN _vanishes precipitately; whereupon_ PHILIP
_strides to the big doors, thrusts them wide open with a
blow of his fists, and sits at the dining-table._

END OF THE THIRD ACT

THE FOURTH ACT

_The scene is the same, the light that of a fine winter morning. The big doors are open, and from the dining-room windows, where the curtains are now drawn back, there is a view of some buildings opposite and, through a space between the buildings, of the tops of the bare trees in Gray's Inn garden._

_Save for a chair with a crumpled napkin upon it which stands at the dining-table before the remains of_ PHILIP_'s breakfast, the disposition of the furniture is as when first shown._

_A fire is burning in the nearer room._

[PHILIP, _dressed as at the opening of the preceding
act, is seated on the settee on the right, moodily
puffing at his pipe._ ROOPE _faces him, in the chair by
the smoking-table, with a mournful air._ ROOPE _is in
his overcoat and is nursing his hat._

PHILIP.

[_To_ ROOPE, _shortly, as if continuing a conversation._] Well?

ROOPE.

Well, what happened was this. I----

[_He breaks off to glance over his shoulder into the
further room._

PHILIP.

Go on. Nobody'll hear you. John's out.

ROOPE.

What happened was this. I overtook 'em at the bottom of the stairs, and begged 'em to let me go back with them to Ennismore Gardens. Lady Filson and I got into one cab, Sir Randle and Madame de Chaumié into another. Bertram Filson slunk off to his club. At Ennismore Gardens we had the most depressin' meal I've ever sat down to, and then Madame Ottoline proposed that I should smoke a cigarette in her boudoir. [_Distressed._] Oh, my dear Phil----!

PHILIP.

W-w-what----?

ROOPE.

I can't bear to see a woman in tears; I can't, positively.

PHILIP.

[_Between his teeth._] Confound you, Robbie, who can! Don't brag about it.

ROOPE.

At first she swept up and down the room like an outraged Empress. Her skirts created quite a wind. I won't attempt to tell you all the bitter things she said----

PHILIP.

Of me?

ROOPE.

And of _me_, dear excellent friend.

PHILIP.

[_Grimly._] For your share in the business.

ROOPE.

[_With a nod._] The fatal luncheon in South Audley Street. However, she soon softened, and came and knelt by the fire. And suddenly--you've seen a child fall on the pavement and cut its knees, haven't you, Phil?----

PHILIP.

Of course I have.

ROOPE.

That's how she cried. I was really alarmed.

PHILIP.

The--the end of it being----?

ROOPE.

[_Dismally._] The end of it being that she went off to bed, declaring that she recognizes that the breach between you is beyond healing, and that she's resolved never to cross your path again if she can avoid it.

PHILIP.

[_Laying his pipe aside._] Ha! [_Scowling at_ ROOPE.] And so this is the result of your self-appointed mission, is it?

ROOPE.

[_Hurt._] That's rather ungrateful, Phil----

PHILIP.

[_Starting up and walking away to the left._] P'sha!

ROOPE.

If you'd heard how I reasoned with her----!

PHILIP.

[_Striding up and down._] What had I better do? It's good of you to be here so early. [ROOPE _rises._] I'm _not_ ungrateful, Robbie. Advise me.

ROOPE.

[_Stiffly._] I assume, from your tone, that what you _wish_ to do is to--er----?

PHILIP.

To abase myself before her; to grovel at her feet and crave her pardon for my behaviour of last night. What else should I want to do, in God's name!

ROOPE.

[_Dryly._] I see, you've slept on it.

PHILIP.

Laid awake on it. [_Fiercely._] Do I look as if I'd slept the sleep of a healthy infant?

ROOPE.

I don't know anything about infants, I am happy to say, healthy or ailing; but certainly your treatment of Madame de Chaumié was atrocious.

PHILIP.

Brutal, savage, inhuman! [_Halting and extending his arms._] And what's been her fault? She's dared to love me eagerly, impetuously, uncontrollably--_me_, a conceited, egotistical fellow who is no more worth her devotion than the pompous beast who opens her father's front-door! And because, out of her love, she commits a heedless, impulsive act which deals a blow at my rotten pride, I slap her face and turn my back upon her, and suffer her to leave my rooms as though she's a charwoman detected in prigging silver from my cash-box! [_Clasping his brow and groaning._] Oh--! [_In sudden fury at seeing_ ROOPE _thoughtfully examining his hat._] Damn it, Robbie, stop fiddling with your hat or you'll drive me crazy!

[_He sits on the settee on the left and rests his head
on his fists._ ROOPE _hastily deposits his hat on the
smoking-table._

ROOPE.

[_Approaching_ PHILIP _coldly._] I was considering, dear excellent friend--but perhaps in your present state of irritability----

PHILIP.

[_Holding out his hand penitently._] Shut up!

ROOPE.

[_Presenting_ PHILIP _with two fingers._] I was considering--when you almost sprang at my throat--I was considering that it isn't at all unlikely that Madame de Chaumié's frame of mind is a trifle less inflexible this morning. _She_ has slept--or laid awake--on the events of last night too, recollect.

PHILIP.

[_Raising his head._] Having been kicked out of this place a few hours ago, her affection for me revives with the rattle of the milk-cans!

ROOPE.

[_Evasively._] At any rate, she must be conscious that you were smarting under provocation. She confessed as much during our talk. [_Magnanimously._] Even _I_ admit you had provocation.

PHILIP.

_That_ never influenced a woman, Robbie. Besides, I've insulted this one before--grossly insulted her, in the old days in Paris----

ROOPE.

Ancient history! _My_ advice is--since you invite it--my advice is that you write her a letter----

PHILIP.

I've composed half-a-dozen already. [_Pointing to a waste-paper basket by the writing-table._] The pieces are in that basket.

ROOPE.

No, no; not a highly-wrought performance. Simply a line, asking her to receive you. [PHILIP _rises listlessly._] Send it along by messenger. [_With growing enthusiasm._] Look here! I'll take it!

PHILIP.

[_Gloomily, his hand on Roope's shoulder._] Ho, ho! You--you indefatigable old Cupid!

ROOPE.

[_Looking at his watch._] Quarter-past-ten. [_Excitedly._] Phil, I bet you a hundred guineas--[_correcting himself_] er--well--five pounds--I bet you five pounds I'm with you again, with a favourable reply, before twelve!

PHILIP.

[_Clapping_ ROOPE _on the back._] Done! [_Crossing to the writing-table._] At the worst, I've earned a fiver.

ROOPE.

[_As_ PHILIP _sits at the table and takes a sheet of paper and an envelope from a drawer._] May I suggest----?

PHILIP.

[_Dipping his pen in the ink._] Fire away, old chap.

ROOPE.

[_Seeking for inspiration by gazing at the ceiling._] H'm--[_Dictating._] "Forgive me. I forgive you. When may I come to you?" [_To_ PHILIP.] Not another word.

PHILIP.

[_As he writes._] By George, you've got the romantic touch, Robbie! If you'd been a literary bloke, what sellers _you'd_ have written!

ROOPE.

[_Behind the smoking-table, smoothing his hair complacently._] Funny, your remark. As a matter of fact, I _used_ to dabble a little in pen-and-ink as a young man.

PHILIP.

[_Reading, a tender ring in his voice._] "Forgive me. I forgive you. When may I come to you?" [_Adding his signature._] "Philip."

ROOPE.

Admirable!

PHILIP.

[_Folding and enclosing the note--catching some of_ ROOPE_'s hopefulness._] In the meantime I'll array myself in my Sunday-best--[_moistening the envelope_] on the chance----

ROOPE.

Do; at once. [_Putting on his hat._] She _may_ summon you by telephone----

PHILIP.

[_Addressing the envelope._] She gave me a scarf-pin yesterday--such a beauty. [_Softly._] I'll wear it. [_Rising and giving the note to_ ROOPE.] Bless you, old boy!

[ROOPE _pockets the note, grasps_ PHILIP_'s hand
hurriedly, and bustles to the vestibule door._

ROOPE.

My quickest way is the Tube to Bayswater, and then a taxi across the Park----

[_He has entered the vestibule--omitting to close the
door in his haste--and has opened the outer door when_
PHILIP _calls to him._

PHILIP.

[_Standing behind the smoking-table--with a change of manner._] Robbie----

ROOPE.

Hey?

PHILIP.

Robbie--[ROOPE _returns to_ PHILIP _reluctantly, leaving the outer door open._] Oh, Robbie--[_gripping_ ROOPE's _arm_] how I boasted to you of my triumph--my grand victory! How I swaggered and bellowed, and crowed over you----!

ROOPE.

[_Fidgeting to get away._] Yes, but we won't discuss that now, Phil----

PHILIP.

[_Detaining him._] Wait. [_Brokenly._] Robbie--should Ottoline show any inclination to--to patch matters up, you may tell her--as from me--that I--I've done with it.

ROOPE.

[_Wonderingly._] Done with it?

PHILIP.

My career as a writing-man. It's finished. [_Hanging his head._] I'm sorry to break faith with her people; but she may take me, if she will, on her own terms--a poor devil who has proved a duffer at his job, and who is content henceforth to be nothing but her humble slave and dependant.

ROOPE.

[_Energetically._] My dear Phil, for heaven's sake, don't entertain such a notion! Abandon your career just when you're making a noise in the world----!

PHILIP.

[_Throwing up his hands._] Noise in the world!

ROOPE.

When you're getting the finest advertisement an author could possibly desire!

PHILIP.

[_Choking._] Advertisement----!

ROOPE.

I can sympathize with your feeling mortified at not scoring entirely off your own bat; but, deuce take it, your book _is_ in its thirteenth edition!

PHILIP.

[_Laughing wildly._] Ho, ho, ho! [_Moving to the fireplace._] Ha, ha, ha, ha----!

ROOPE.

[_Testily._] Oh, I'm glad I amuse you----!

PHILIP.

[_Coming to the settee on the right._] You're marvellous, Robbie--incomparable----!

ROOPE.

[_Again preparing to depart._] Indeed?

PHILIP.

Ha, ha, ha----!

[_A moment earlier,_ SIR TIMOTHY BARRADELL _has appeared
in the vestibule, trying, in the dim light there, to
decipher the name on the outer door. Hearing the sound
of voices, he turns and reveals himself._

SIR TIMOTHY.

[_Looking into the room and encountering_ ROOPE.] Roope!

ROOPE.

[_As they shake hands--astonished._] Dear excellent _friend_, what a surprise!

SIR TIMOTHY.

Ah, don't flatter yourself you're the only early riser in London! [_Seeing_ PHILIP.] Mr. Mackworth--[_advancing_] I found your door open and I took the liberty----

PHILIP.

[_Meeting him in the middle of the room._] Sir Timothy Barradell, isn't it?

SIR TIMOTHY.

It is. [_They shake hands, cordially on_ SIR TIMOTHY's _part, with more formality on_ PHILIP's.] It's an unceremonious hour for a call, but if you'd spare me five minutes----

PHILIP.

[_Civilly._] Pray sit down. [_Joining_ ROOPE _at the entrance to the vestibule._] Robbie _has_ to run away----

ROOPE.

[_Diplomatically._] Can't stay another moment. [_Waving a hand to_ SIR TIMOTHY.] _Au revoir_, dear Sir Timothy!

SIR TIMOTHY.

[_Laying his hat upon the settee on the right and taking off his gloves._] So long! [PHILIP _and_ ROOPE _stare at_ SIR TIMOTHY, _whose back is towards them._ ROOPE _gives_ PHILIP _an inquiring look, which_ PHILIP _answers by a shrug and a shake of the head; and then_ PHILIP _lets_ ROOPE _out and comes back into the room._ SIR TIMOTHY _turns to him._] I'm afraid you think I'm presuming on a very slight acquaintance, Mr. Mackworth----

PHILIP.

[_Shutting the vestibule door._] Not in the least.

SIR TIMOTHY.

Anyhow I'll not waste more of your valuable time than I can help. [PHILIP _points to the settee and the two men sit, Sir Timothy on the settee,_ PHILIP _in the chair by the smoking-table._ SIR TIMOTHY _inspects the toes of his boots._] Mr. Mackworth, I--I won't beat about the bush--it's a delicate subject I'm approaching you on.

PHILIP.

[_Leaning back in his chair._] Really?

SIR TIMOTHY.

An extremely delicate subject--[_raising his eyes_] Madame de Chaumié.

PHILIP.

Madame de Chaumié?

SIR TIMOTHY.

In the first place, I suppose you're aware that I had the temerity to propose marriage to the lady in the summer of this year?

PHILIP.

Yes, I'm aware of it. Madame de Chaumié informed me of the circumstance.

SIR TIMOTHY.

[_Nodding._] She would; she would. [_Straightening himself._] Well, Mr. Mackworth, while I was abroad I heard from various sources that you had become a pretty regular visitor at the house of her parents, and that you and she were to be seen together occasionally in the secluded spots of Kensington Gardens; and I naturally inferred that it was yourself she'd had the good taste to single out from among her numerous suitors.

PHILIP.

[_With a smile._] I'd rather you didn't put it in that way, Sir Timothy; but I guessed yesterday that the facts of the case had reached you through some channel or other.

SIR TIMOTHY.

Yesterday?

PHILIP.

When Robbie Roope brought me your kind greetings.

SIR TIMOTHY.

Ah, that's nice of you! [_Constrainedly._] That's--nice of you.

PHILIP.

[_Changing his position and unbending._] But tell me! I don't know yet what you have to say to me about Madame de Chaumié--but why should you find it embarrassing to speak of her to me? [_Gently._] We're men of the world, you and I; and it isn't the rule of life that the prize always goes to the most deserving. [_With animation._]

"And in the world, as in the school,
I'd say, how fate may change and shift;
The prize be sometimes with the fool,
The race not always to the swift.
The strong may yield, the good may fall,
The great man be a vulgar clown,
The knave be lifted over all,
The kind cast pitilessly down."

So sang one of the noblest gentlemen who have ever followed my calling!

[_There is a brief silence, and then_ SIR TIMOTHY _rises
abruptly and walks to the fireplace._ PHILIP _looks
after him, perplexed._

SIR TIMOTHY.

[_Facing the fire._] Mr. Mackworth----

PHILIP.

Eh?

SIR TIMOTHY.

I saw Bertram Filson last night--her brother.

PHILIP.

[_Pricking up his ears._] You did? Where?

SIR TIMOTHY.

At the club--the Junior Somerset. He came in late, looking a bit out of gear, and ate a mouthful of dinner and drank a whole bottle of Pommery; and afterwards he joined me in the smoking-room and--and was exceedingly communicative.

PHILIP.

[_Attentively._] Oh?

SIR TIMOTHY.

I didn't encourage him to babble--[_turning_] 'twas he that insisted on confiding to me what had occurred----

PHILIP.

Occurred?

SIR TIMOTHY.

That you and Madame de Chaumié had had a serious difference, and that there's small prospect of its being bridged over.

PHILIP.

[_Glaring._] Oh, he confided _that_ to you, did he, Sir Timothy?

SIR TIMOTHY.

He did.

PHILIP.

[_Rising and pacing up and down on the left._] And what the devil does Filson mean by gossiping about me at a club--me and my relations with Madame de Chaumié!

SIR TIMOTHY.

[_Advancing a little._] Ah, don't be angry! The champagne he'd drunk had loosened his tongue. And then, I'm a friend of the family----

PHILIP.

Infernal puppy!

SIR TIMOTHY.

Referring to _Filson_?

PHILIP.

Of course.

Sir Timothy.

[_Mildly._] Well, whether young Filson's a puppy or not, _now_ perhaps you begin to appreciate my motive for intruding on you?

PHILIP.

[_Halting._] Hardly.

SIR TIMOTHY.

You don't! [_Rumpling his hair._] I'll try to make it plainer to you. [_Behind the smoking-table._] Er--will I smoke one of your cigarettes?----

PHILIP.

[_Frigidly polite._] Please.

SIR TIMOTHY.

[_Taking a cigarette from the box on the table._] Mr. Mackworth, if Filson's prognostications as to the result of the quarrel between you and his sister are fulfilled, it's my intention, after a decent interval, to renew my appeal to her to marry me. [_Striking a match._] Is that clear?

PHILIP.

Perfectly. [_Stiffly._] But all the same, I'm still at a loss----

SIR TIMOTHY.

[_Lighting his cigarette._] At a loss, are you! [_Warmly._] You're at a loss to understand that I'm not the sort of man who'd steal a march upon another where a woman's concerned, and take advantage of his misfortunes in a dirty manner! [_Coming to_ PHILIP.] Mackworth--I'll drop the Mister, if you've no objection--Mackworth, I promise you I won't move a step till I have your assurance that your split with Madame de Chaumié is a mortal one, and that the coast is open to all comers. That's my part o' the bargain, and I expect you on your side to treat me with equal fairness and frankness. [_Offering his hand._] You will?

PHILIP.

My dear Sir Timothy--my dear Barradell--[_shaking_ SIR TIMOTHY's _hand heartily_.] you're the most chivalrous fellow I've ever met!

SIR TIMOTHY.

[_Walking away._] Ah, go on now!

PHILIP.

[_Following him._] I apologize sincerely for being so curt.

SIR TIMOTHY.

Don't mention it.

PHILIP.

It's true, Ottoline and I _have_ had a bad fall out. [_Keenly._] Did Filson give you any particulars----?

SIR TIMOTHY.

I gathered 'twas something arising out of a book of yours----

PHILIP.

Y-y-yes; a silly affair in which I was utterly in the wrong. I lost my accursed temper--made a disgraceful exhibition of myself. [_Touching_ SIR TIMOTHY's _arm._] I _will_ be quite straight with you, Barradell--Robbie Roope has just gone to her with a note from me. I don't want to pain you; but Robbie and I hope that, after a night's rest--[_The bell rings in the vestibule._] Excuse me--my servant isn't in. [_He goes into the vestibule, leaving the door open._ SIR TIMOTHY _picks up his hat. On opening the outer door,_ PHILIP _confronts_ OTTOLINE.] Otto----!

OTTOLINE.

[_In the doorway, giving him both her hands._] Are you alone, Philip?

PHILIP.

[_Drawing her into the vestibule, his eyes sparkling._] No. [_With a motion of his head._] Sir Timothy Barradell----

[OTTOLINE _passes_ PHILIP _and enters the room, holding
out her hand to_ SIR TIMOTHY. _Her eyes are black-rimmed
from sleeplessness; but whatever asperity she has
displayed overnight has disappeared, and she is again
full of softness and charm._

OTTOLINE.

Sir Tim!

PHILIP.

[_Shutting the outer door--breathing freely._] Kind of Sir Timothy to look me up, isn't it?

OTTOLINE.

[_To_ SIR TIMOTHY.] _Vous êtes un vaurien!_ When did you return?

SIR TIMOTHY.

[_Who has flung his cigarette into the grate--crestfallen._] The day before yesterday.

OTTOLINE.

Then I mustn't scold you for not having been to see us yet. [_Wonderingly._] You find time to call on Mr. Mackworth, though!

SIR TIMOTHY.

[_With a gulp._] I--I was on my way to my solicitors, who are in Raymond Buildings, and I remembered that I knew Mackworth years ago----

PHILIP.

[_Loitering near the vestibule door, impatient for_ SIR TIMOTHY's _departure._] When I was a rollicking man-about-town, eh, Barradell!

SIR TIMOTHY.

[_Retaining_ OTTOLINE's _hand--to her, earnestly._] My dear Madame de Chaumié----

OTTOLINE.

Yes?

SIR TIMOTHY.

[_Bracing himself._] A little bird brought the news to me shortly after I left England. [_She lowers her eyes._] I--I congratulate you and Mackworth--I congratulate you from the core of my heart.

OTTOLINE.

[_In a quiet voice._] Thank you, dear Sir Timothy.

SIR TIMOTHY.

May you both be as happy as you deserve to be, and even happier!

PHILIP.

[_Laughing._] Ha, ha, ha!

SIR TIMOTHY.

[_Squeezing her hand._] Good-bye for the present.

OTTOLINE.

[_Smilingly._] Good-bye. [_He passes her and joins_ PHILIP. _Unseen by_ OTTOLINE_--who proceeds to loosen her coat at the settee on the right--_ PHILIP _again gives_ SIR TIMOTHY _a vigorous hand-shake._ SIR TIMOTHY _responds to it disconsolately, and is following_ PHILIP _into the vestibule when he hears_ OTTOLINE _call to him._] Sir Tim!

SIR TIMOTHY.

[_Turning._] Hallo!

OTTOLINE.

[_Lightly._] Is your car here?

SIR TIMOTHY.

[_Brightening._] It is.

OTTOLINE.

You may give me a lift to Bond Street, if your business with your lawyers won't keep you long.

SIR TIMOTHY.

[_Emphatically._] It will _not_. [_Beaming._] I told you a lie. I've _no_ business with my lawyers. I came here expressly to improve my acquaintance with the man who's to be your husband, and for no other purpose.

[_They all laugh merrily._

OTTOLINE.

Ha, ha, ha! [_To_ SIR TIMOTHY.] Wait for me in South Square, then. I sha'n't be many minutes.

SIR TIMOTHY.

[_Going into the vestibule._] Ah, I'd wait an eternity!

[PHILIP _and_ SIR TIMOTHY _shake hands once more, and
then_ PHILIP _lets_ SIR TIMOTHY _out._

PHILIP.

[_As he shuts the outer door._] By George, he's a splendid chap! [_He comes back into the room, closes the vestibule door, and advances to_ OTTOLINE _and stands before her humbly._] Oh, Ottoline--oh, my dear girl! Shall I go down on my knees to you?

OTTOLINE.

[_In a subdued tone._] If you do, I shall have to kneel to _you_, Phil.

PHILIP.

[_Slowly folding her in his arms._] Ah! Ah! Ah! [_In her ear._] What a night I've spent!

OTTOLINE.

[_Almost inaudibly._] And I!

[_He seats her upon the settee on the right and sits
beside her, linking his hand in hers._

PHILIP.

How merciful this is of you! I've just sent you a letter by Robbie Roope, begging you to see me; you've missed him. [_Smiling._] It isn't as eloquent as some I started writing at five o'clock this morning. Would you like to hear it? [_She nods. He recites his note tenderly._] "Forgive me. I forgive you. When may I come to you?" That's all.

OTTOLINE.

_Isn't_ that eloquent, Phil?

PHILIP.

[_Smiling again._] It's concise--and as long as you forgive me--[_eyeing her with a shadow of fear_] you're _sure_ you've forgiven me?

OTTOLINE.

Sure.

PHILIP.

[_Persistently._] Without reserve?

OTTOLINE.

Should I be here--[_indicating their proximity_] and _here_--if I hadn't?

PHILIP.

[_Pressing her hand to his lips ardently, and then freeing her shoulders from her coat._] Take this off----

OTTOLINE.

[_Gently resisting._] Poor Sir Timothy----!

PHILIP.

[_In high spirits._] Oh, a little exercise won't do Sir Timothy any harm! [_Helping her to slip her arms out of her coat._] Dash it, you might have let _me_ escort you to Bond Street!

OTTOLINE.

No, no; your work----

PHILIP.

[_His brow clouding._] W-w-work----?

OTTOLINE.

You mustn't lose your morning's work.

[_There is a short pause, and then he rises and moves a
few steps away from her. With an impassive countenance,
she fingers the buttons of her gloves._

PHILIP.

[_Stroking the pattern of the carpet with his foot._] Otto----

OTTOLINE.

[_Looking up._] Yes, Phil?

PHILIP.

I asked Robbie to tell you, if he had the opportunity, that I've decided to make my farewell salaam to authorship. I'm no good at it; I'm a frost; I realize it at last. I've had my final whack on the jaw; I've fought--how many rounds?--and now I take the count and slink out of the ring, beat. [_Producing his keys, he goes to the cabinet on the right, unlocks it, and selects from several cardboard portfolios one which he carries to the writing-table. While he is doing this,_ OTTOLINE_--still with an expressionless face--rises and moves to the left, where she stands watching him. He opens the portfolio and, with a pained look, handles the sheets of manuscript in it._] Ha! You and I have often talked over this, haven't we, Otto?

OTTOLINE.

[_Calmly._] Often.

PHILIP.

[_Taking the manuscript from the portfolio--thoughtfully._] It was to have been--oh, such an advance on my previous stuff--kindlier, less strenuous, more urbane! Success--success!--had sweetened the gall in me! [_Glancing at a partly covered page._] Here's where I broke off yesterday. [_With a shrug._] In every man's life there's a chapter uncompleted, in one form or another! [_Throwing the manuscript into the portfolio._] Pst! Get back to your hole; I'll burn you later on. [_He rejoins her. She half turns from him, averting her head._] So end my pitiful strivings and ambitions! [_Laying his hand on her shoulder._] Ah, it's a miserable match you're making, Ottoline! My two-hundred-a-year will rig me out suitably, and provide me with tobacco; and the dribblets coming to me from my old books--through the honest publishers I deserted for Mr. Titterton!--the dribblets coming from my old books will enable me to present you with a nosegay on the anniversaries of our wedding-day, and--by the time your hair's white--to refund you the money Titterton's had from you. And there--with a little fame unjustly won, which, thank God, 'll soon die!--there you have the sum of my possessions! [_Seizing her arms and twisting her round._] Oh, but I'll be your mate, my dear--your loyal companion and protector--comrade and lover----!

[_He is about to embrace her again, but she keeps him
off by placing her hands against his breast._

OTTOLINE.

[_Steeling herself._] Phil----

PHILIP.

[_Unsuspectingly._] Eh?

OTTOLINE.

I arrived at a decision during the night too, Phil.

PHILIP.

Yes?

OTTOLINE.

Don't--don't loathe me. [_Shaking her head gravely._] I am not going to marry you.

PHILIP.

[_Staring at her._] You're not going to--marry me?

OTTOLINE.

No, Philip.

PHILIP.

[_After another pause._] You--you're overwrought, Otto; you've had no sleep. Neither of us has had any sleep----

OTTOLINE.

Oh, but I'm quite clearheaded----

PHILIP.

[_Bewildered._] Why, just now you said you'd forgiven me--repeated it----!

OTTOLINE.

I do repeat it. If I've anything to forgive, I forgive you a thousand times----

PHILIP.

And you allowed me to--to take you in my arms----

OTTOLINE.

You shall take me in your arms again, Phil, once more, before we part, if you wish to. I'm not a girl, though you call me one----

PHILIP.

[_Sternly._] Look here! You don't imagine for an instant that I shall accept this! You----!

OTTOLINE.

Ssh! Try not to be hasty; try to be reasonable. Listen to me----

PHILIP.

You--you mean me to understand that, in consequence of this wretched Titterton affair, you've changed your mind, and intend to chuck me!

OTTOLINE.

Yes, I mean you to understand that.

PHILIP.

[_Turning from her indignantly._] Oh----!

OTTOLINE.

[_Sitting in the chair by the smoking-table._] Philip--Philip--[_He hesitates, then seats himself on the settee opposite to her. She speaks with great firmness and deliberation._] Philip, while you were lying awake last night, or walking about your room, didn't you--_think_?

PHILIP.

[_Hotly._] _Think----!_

OTTOLINE.

No, no--soberly, steadily, searchingly. Evidently not, _cher ami_! [_Bending forward._] Phil, after what has happened, can't you see me as I really _am_?

PHILIP.

As you--are?

OTTOLINE.

An incurably vulgar woman. An incurably common, vulgar woman. Nobody but a woman whose vulgarity is past praying for could have conceived such a scheme as I planned and carried out with that man Clifford Titterton--nobody. This--how shall I term it?--this refinement of mine is merely on the surface. We women are like the--what's the name of the little reptile?--the chameleon, isn't it? We catch the colour of our surroundings. But what we were, we continue to be--in the grain. The vulgar-minded Ottoline Filson, who captivated, and disgusted, you in Paris is before you at this moment. The only difference is that then she was a natural person, and now she plays _les grands rôles_. [_Sitting upright and pressing her temples._] Oh, I have fooled myself as well as you, Phil--deluded myself----!

PHILIP.

You're dog-tired, Otto. Your brain's in a fever. All you've done, you've done from your love for me, my dear--your deep, passionate love----

OTTOLINE.

[_Wincing._] Passionate love--_parfaitement_! [_Looking at him._] But that feeling's over, Phil.

PHILIP.

Over?

OTTOLINE.

[_Simply._] I shall always _love_ you--always--always; but my passion exhausted itself last night. For months it has borne me along on a wave. It was that that swept me to the door of Titterton's office in Charles Street, Adelphi; it was strong enough to drive me to any length. But last night, in those dreadful small hours, the wave beat itself out, and threw me up on to the rocks, and left me shivering--naked--ashamed--[_drawing a deep breath_] ah, but in my right senses!

[_She unbuttons her left-hand glove, rolls the hand of
the glove over her wrist, and takes her engagement-ring
from her finger._

PHILIP.

[_Aghast._] Otto! Otto! What are you doing! What are you doing! [_She lays the ring carefully upon the smoking-table and rises and walks away. He rises with her, following her._] To-morrow--when you've had some sleep--to-morrow----

OTTOLINE.

Never. Don't deceive yourself, Philip. [_Going to the fireplace._] If anything was needed to strengthen my resolution, the announcement you've just made would supply it.

PHILIP.

[_On the left._] Announcement?

OTTOLINE.

With regard to your literary work. [_Turning to him._] _Ne voyez-vous pas!_ I have begun to degrade you already!

PHILIP.

[_Consciously._] Degrade me?

OTTOLINE.

Degrade you. If I hadn't come into your life again, you would have accepted your reverse--your failure to gain popularity by your latest book--as you've accepted similar disappointments--with a shrug and a confident snap of your fingers. [_Advancing._] But I've humbled you--bruised your spirit--shaken your courage; and now you express your willingness--_you!_--to throw your pen aside, and tack yourself to my skirts, and to figure meekly for the rest of your existence as "Mrs. Mackworth's husband"! [_At the nearer end of the writing-table._] _Mon Dieu!_ This is what I have brought you to!

PHILIP.

[_Biting his lip._] You--you wouldn't have me profit by the advertisement I've got out of "The Big Drum," Ottoline--[_ironically_] the finest advertisement I could wish for, according to Robbie! You wouldn't have me sink as low as that?

OTTOLINE.

You can write under an alias--a _nom de plume_--until you've won your proper place----

PHILIP.

[_Uneasily._] Oh, well--perhaps--by-and-by--when we had settled down, you and I--and things had adjusted themselves----

OTTOLINE.

Yes, when you'd grown sick and weary of your new environment, and had had time to reflect on the horrid trick I'd employed to get hold of you, and had learned to despise me for it, you'd creep back to your desk and make an effort to pick up the broken threads! [_Coming to the settee on the right._] _Eh bien!_ Do you know what would happen _then_, Phil?

PHILIP.

W-w-what?

OTTOLINE.

[_Intensely._] I should _puff_ you, under the rose--quietly pull the strings--use all the influence I could rake up----

PHILIP.

No, no----

OTTOLINE.

I should. It's in my blood. I couldn't resist it. Whether you wrote as Jones, or Smith, or Robinson, you'd find Jones, Smith, or Robinson artfully puffed and paragraphed and thrust under people's noses in the papers. I'm an incurably vulgar woman, I tell you! [_Snatching at her coat--harshly._] _Ah, que je me connais; que je me connais!_

[_She fumbles for the arm-holes of her coat. He goes to
her quickly and they stand holding the coat between them
and looking at each other._

PHILIP.

[_After a silence._] You--you're determined?

OTTOLINE.

Determined.

PHILIP.

You--you _can't_ be!

Ottoline.

I am--I swear I am.

PHILIP.

[_After a further silence._] Then it _is_--as you said last night----?

OTTOLINE.

What did I say last night? I forget.

PHILIP.

[_In a husky voice._] _C'est fini--après tout!_

OTTOLINE.

[_Inclining her head._] _C'est fini--après tout._

PHILIP.

[_Bitterly._] Ho! Ho, ho, ho! [_Another pause._] So when--when April comes--we--we sha'n't----!

OTTOLINE.

[_Lowering her eyes--all gentleness again._] We sha'n't walk under the trees in the Champs-Elysées, Phil----

PHILIP.

Nor in the Allée de Longchamp--where we----

OTTOLINE.

No, nor in the Allée de Longchamp.

PHILIP.

[_Releasing her coat and thrusting his hands into his trouser-pockets._] Somebody else'll gulp the milk at the Café d'Armenonville----!

OTTOLINE.

And at the Pré-Catalan----

PHILIP.

And there'll be no one to gaze sentimentally at my old windows in the Rue Soufflot----

OTTOLINE.

[_Softly._] _Quarante-trois bis._ [_Sighing._] No one.

PHILIP.

[_With a hollow laugh._] Ha, ha, ha! _C'est fini--après tout!_

OTTOLINE.

[_Firmly._] _C'est fini--après tout._ [_She holds out her coat to him and he helps her into it. Suddenly, while her back is turned to him, he utters a guttural cry and grips her shoulders savagely. She turns in surprise, her hand to her shoulder._] Oh, Phil----!

PHILIP.

[_Pointing at her._] I see! I see! I see the end of it! You'll marry Barradell! You'll marry the fellow who's cooling his heels down below in South Square!

OTTOLINE.

[_Placidly, fastening her coat._] I may.

PHILIP.

[_Choking._] Oh----!

OTTOLINE.

I may, if I marry at all--and he bothers any more about me.

PHILIP.

[_Stamping up and down._] Bacon Barradell! Bacon Barradell! The wife of Bacon Barradell!

OTTOLINE.

[_With a sad smile._] He has social aims; a vulgar, pushing woman would be a serviceable partner for Sir Tim.

PHILIP.

Oh! Oh--! [_Dropping on to the settee on the left and burying his face in his hands._] Ho, well, more power to him! He can sell his bacon; I--I can't sell my books!

[_Again there is a silence, and then, putting on her
left-hand glove, she goes to_ PHILIP _and stands over
him compassionately._

OTTOLINE.

_Mon pauvre Philippe_, it's you, not I, who will take another view of things to-morrow. [_He makes a gesture of dissent._] Ah, come, come, come! You have never loved me as I have loved you. Unconsciously--without perceiving it--one may be half a _poseuse_; but at least I've been sincere in my love for you, and in hungering to be your wife. [_Giving him her right hand._] You're the best I've ever known, dear; by far the best I've ever known. [_He presses her hand to his brow convulsively._] But when we had our talk in South Audley Street, how did you serve me? You insisted on my waiting--waiting; I who had cherished your image in my mind for years! You guessed I shouldn't have patience--you almost prophesied as much; but still--I was to wait!

PHILIP.

[_Inarticulately._] Oh, Otto!

OTTOLINE.

[_Withdrawing her hand._] What did that show, Phil? It showed--as your compromise with mother and Dad showed afterwards--that the success of the book you were engaged upon came first with you; that marrying me was to be only an incident in your career; that you didn't love me sufficiently to bend your pride or vary your programme a jot. [_He gets to his feet, startled, dumbfoundered. He attempts to speak, but she checks him._] H'sh! H'sh! I'm scolding you; but, for your sake, I wouldn't have it otherwise. Now that I'm sane and cool, I wouldn't have it otherwise.

PHILIP.

[_Struggling for words--thickly._] Ottoline--Ottoline--[_his voice dying away_] I----!

OTTOLINE.

[_Taking his hands in hers._] Good-bye. Don't come downstairs with me. Let me leave you sitting at your table, at work--at work on that incomplete chapter. We shall tumble up against one another, I dare say, at odd times, but this is the last we shall see of each other _dans l'intimité_; and I want to print on my memory the sight of you--[_pointing to the writing-table_] there--keeping your flag flying. [_Putting her arms round him--in a whisper._] Keep your flag flying, Philip! Don't--don't sulk with your art, and be false to yourself, because a trumpery woman has fretted and disturbed you. Keep your flag flying--[_kissing him_] my--my dear hero!

[_She untwines her arms and steps back. Slowly, with his
hands hanging loosely, and his chin upon his breast,_
PHILIP _passes her and goes to the writing-table. There,
dully and mechanically, he takes the unfinished page of
manuscript from the portfolio, arranges it upon the
blotting-pad and, seating himself at the table, picks up
his pen. Very softly_ OTTOLINE _opens the vestibule
door, gives_ PHILIP _a last look over her shoulder, and
enters the vestibule, closing the door behind her. There
is a pause, during which_ PHILIP _sits staring at his
inkstand, and then the outer door slams. With an
exclamation,_ PHILIP _drops his pen, leaps up, and
rushes to the vestibule door._

PHILIP.

Otto! Otto! [_Loudly._] Ottoline----!

[_With his hand on the door-handle, he wavers, his eyes
shifting wildly to and from the writing-table. Then,
with a mighty effort, he pulls himself together, strides
to the smoking-table, and loads and lights his pipe.
Puffing at his pipe fiercely, he reseats himself before
his manuscript and, grabbing his pen, forces himself to
write. He has written a word or two when he
falters--stops--and lays his head upon his arm on the
table._

PHILIP.

[_His shoulders heaving._] Oh, Otto--Otto----!

THE END

_Printed by_ BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO. LTD. _At the Ballantyne Press_ LONDON AND EDINBURGH