Ottoline.

It's been none of my doing; I've finished with le snobbisme entirely. [Pleadingly.] You don't doubt me?

Philip.

[Patting her hand.] No—no.

Ottoline.

Nowadays I detest coming across my name in print. But my people—[with a little moue] they will persist in——!

Philip.

Beating the big drum?

Ottoline.

Ha! [Brushing her hair from her brow fretfully.] Oh! Oh, Phil, it was blindness on my part to return to them—sheer blindness!

Philip.

Blindness?

Ottoline.

They've been urging me to do it ever since my husband's death; so I had ample time to consider the step. But I didn't realize, till I'd settled down in Ennismore Gardens, how thoroughly I——

Philip.

[Finding she doesn't continue.] How thoroughly——?

Ottoline.

How thoroughly I've grown away from them—ceased to be one of them. [Stamping her foot.] Oh, I know I'm ungrateful; and that they're proud of me, and pet and spoil me; [contracting her shoulder-blades] but they make my flesh feel quite raw—mother, Dad, and my brother Bertram! Their intense satisfaction with themselves, and everything appertaining to them, irritates me to such a pitch that I'm often obliged to rush out of the room to stop myself from being rude. [Impetuously.] And then to have to watch Dad and mother still pushing, scheming, intriguing; always with the affectation of despising réclame, yet doing nothing—not the most simple act—without a careful eye to it! Years ago, as I've said, there was an intelligible motive for our paltry ambitions; but now, when they have forcé les portes and can afford to be sincere and independent——! [Checking herself.] But I oughtn't to speak of my folks like this, ought I, even to you whom I can trust! [Penitently.] It's awfully wrong of me. I—I beg your pardon.

Philip.

[After a short silence.] What do you intend to do, then, Otto, ultimately—re-establish yourself in Paris?

Ottoline.

[Drearily.] Paris! Is Paris so full of cheerful memories for me, do you suppose, that I should cling to it!

Philip.

[Soothingly.] Oh, come——!

Ottoline.

I travelled about for some months after I became a widow, and when I saw Paris again—! [Starting up as if to rid herself of disagreeable sensations.] No, my one great desire is to escape from it all, Phil—[moving to the chair on the left] to escape——!

Philip.

[Rising.] Escape?

Ottoline.

To alter the whole current of my life, if it's possible, [sinking into the chair] and to breathe some fresh air! [Fanning herself with her hand.] Phew-w-w-w!

Philip.

H'm! [Approaching her and looking down upon her.] According to report, Ottoline, you'd have very little difficulty in—escaping.

Ottoline.

[Glancing up at him.] Report?

Philip.

Rumour has it that there are at least a dozen ardent admirers at your feet, each with a wedding-ring in his waistcoat-pocket.

Ottoline.

[Reproachfully, her eyes meeting his.] Why, have you been listening to tittle-tattle as well as studying newspaper paragraphs! [He bows, good-humouredly.] My dear Philip, allowing for exaggeration, granting that my soupirants number half-a-dozen, which of them would enable me to fill my lungs with fresh air? Who are they, these enterprising men——?

Philip.

[Leaving her abruptly and going to the mantelpiece.] Oh, pray don't ask me! I don't know who the fellows are—except—they say—Sir Timothy Barradell——

Ottoline.

[Lightly but softly.] Sir Timothy! Sir Timothy has only just succeeded in fighting his way into the world I'm sick and tired of! [Shaking her head.] Poor Sir Tim! [Pityingly.] Ha, ha, ha, ha!

Philip.

[His back towards her.] Otto——

Ottoline.

Yes?

Philip.

What sort of world would you be willing to exchange for your present one, my dear?

Ottoline.

What sort——?

Philip.

What sort—spiritual and material?

Ottoline.

[Resting her elbow upon the arm of her chair and her chin upon her hand, musingly.] Oh, I believe any world would content me that's totally different from the world I've lived in so long; any world that isn't flat and stale and stifling; that isn't made up of shams, and petty aims and appetites; any world that—well, such a world as you used to picture, Phil, when you preached your gospel to a selfish, common girl under the chestnuts in the Allée de Longchamp and the Champs-Elysées! [Half laughing, half sighing.] Ha, la, la, la!

[Again there is a pause, and then he walks to the further window and gazes into the street once more.

Philip.

[In a low voice.] Ten years ago, Otto!

Ottoline.

Ten years ago!

Philip.

[Partly in jest, partly seriously.] Do the buds still sprout on those trees in the Allée de Longchamp and the Champs-Elysées, can you tell me?

Ottoline.

[Falling in with his humour.] Ha, ha! Every spring, cher ami, regularly.

Philip.

And the milk at the Café d'Armenonville and the Pré-Catelan—is it still rich and delectable?

Ottoline.

To the young, I assume; scarcely to the aged widow——!

Philip.

Or the grey-haired scribbler! Ha, ha, ha, ha!

Ottoline.

Ha, ha, ha, ha——!

[He turns and advances to her slowly, looking at her fixedly and earnestly.

Philip.

Ottoline—I wonder whether you'd care to walk under those trees with me again, for sentiment's sake, some fine day in the future——!

Ottoline.

[Staring at him.] C-care——?

Philip.

And if you would, whether I ought to tempt you to risk it!

Ottoline.

[Rising, smiling but discomposed.] To—to risk finding that le lait n'est pas crémeux, do you mean?

Philip.

[Tenderly.] To risk even that. [Drawing nearer to her.] Otto——!

Ottoline.

I—I should be delighted—if—if ever——

Philip.

No, no; not as friends, Otto—save in the best sense——

Ottoline.

[Faintly.] I—I don't——

Philip.

As husband and wife. [She stands quite still.] Husband and wife! Some day when I've achieved a solid success; when I've captured the great public, and can come to you, not as a poor, struggling writer, but holding my prizes in both hands!

Ottoline.

[Putting her hand to her forehead.] It—it's not too late, is it?

Philip.

[Recoiling.] Too late—for me—to be successful?

Ottoline.

[Passionately.] Oh, my God, don't say that to me—[going to him, and clinging to him] too late for me to recover a little of what I've lost!

Philip.

[Pressing her to him.] Ah! Too late for neither of us. It's a bargain?

Ottoline.

Yes—yes; but——

Philip.

But——?

Ottoline.

[Her head drooping.] Must it be—some day? [Piteously.] Some day!

Philip.

There are signs in the sky; the day isn't far distant!

Ottoline.

I—I've money, Philip——

Philip.

H'sssh! [Frowning.] Ottoline!

Ottoline.

Ah, je vois que votre orgueil est plus fort que votre amour!

Philip.

Ha, ha! Peut-être; je ne m'en défends pas. You consent?

Ottoline.

[Pouting.] I may let my people know of the arrangement, may I not? You'll see them?

Philip.

My dear, what would be gained by that now?

Ottoline.

It would enable you to come often to Ennismore Gardens, and have cosy teas with me in my room. We couldn't be—what we are—on the sly indefinitely; it's impracticable. There'll be a storm at first, but it will soon blow over. [Making a wry face.] Still, if you'd rather——

Philip.

No, no; I'll see them, if you wish me to. [Nodding.] We'll be open and above-board from the start.

Ottoline.

Ha, ha! [Sighing happily.] Ah-h-h-h!

Philip.

[His tone changing to one of misgiving.] Ah, Otto, I begin to be afraid that I oughtn't—that I oughtn't to have spoken to you——

Ottoline.

Why?

Philip.

[Gravely.] You will never be patient—you'll never be content to wait, if need be!

Ottoline.

Content, no. But patient! [In a whisper.] Shall I tell you a secret?

Philip.

Well?

Ottoline.

I've been waiting—waiting for you—in my dreams—for ten years!

Philip.

[Ardently.] Otto——!

Ottoline.

Isn't that patience?

[Their lips meet in a lingering kiss. The handle of the door on the left is heard to rattle. Looking at the door, they draw back from one another. The handle rattles again.

Philip.

It's that idiot Robbie.

Ottoline.

Ha, ha, ha, ha——!

[The door opens, and Roope appears, with an air of unconcern.

Roope.

[Humming.] Tra, lal, lal, la——! That's done, dear excellent friends! [Closing the door, and coming forward.] Upon my word, letters are the curse of one's existence——!

Ottoline.

Ha, ha——! [Seizing him.] Robbie——!

Roope.

[Startled.] Hey?

Ottoline.

I can't take you to Lady Paulton's—or anywhere else. Philip and I are going to spend the rest of the afternoon here, if you'll let us—and talk—and talk——! [Suddenly embracing him, and kissing him upon the cheek.] Ah! Que vous êtes gentil! Merci—merci—merci——! [Sitting in the chair on the left and unpinning her hat.] Ha, ha, ha, ha——!

Roope.

[Turning to Philip, his eyes bolting.] Phil——!

Philip.

[Nodding.] Yes. [Wringing Roope's hand.] Much obliged, Robbie.

END OF THE FIRST ACT

THE SECOND ACT

The scene is a morning-room, richly furnished and decorated, in a house in Ennismore Gardens. The walls are of panelled wood for two-thirds of their height, the rest being covered with silk. In the wall at the back, between the centre and the left-hand corner, there is a handsome double-door opening upon another door, covered in thick cloth, which is supposed to give admittance to the library. On the right, in a piece of wall running obliquely towards the spectator from the back wall to the right-hand wall, is a companion double-door to that on the left, with the difference that the panels of the upper part of this door are glazed. A silk curtain obscures the glazed panels to the height of about seven feet from the floor, and above the curtain there is a view of a spacious hall. When the glazed door is opened, it is seen that the hall is appropriately furnished. A window is at the further end of it, letting in light from the street, and on the right of the window there is a lofty screen arranged in such a manner as to suggest that it conceals the front door of the house.

The fireplace, where a bank of flowers hides the grate, is in the left-hand wall of the room. On the further side of the fireplace there is an armchair, and before the fireplace a settee. Behind the settee, also facing the fireplace, are a writing-table and chair; close to the further side of the writing-table is a smaller chair; and at the nearer end of the settee, but at some distance from it, stands a low-backed arm-chair which is turned in the direction of the door on the right.

On the other side of the room, facing the spectator and following the line of the oblique wall, is a second settee. On the left of this settee is an arm-chair, on the right a round table and another chair. Books and periodicals are strewn upon the table. Against the wall at the back, between the doors, are an oblong table and a chair; and other articles of furniture and embellishment—cabinets of various kinds, jardinières, mirrors, lamps, etc., etc.—occupy spaces not provided for in this description.

Among other objects upon the oblong table are some framed photographs, conspicuously displayed, of members of the Royal Family, and a book-rack containing books of reference.

It is daylight.

[Miss Tracer, a red-haired, sprightly young lady, is seated upon the settee on the right, turning the leaves of a picture-paper. A note-book, with a pencil stuck in it, lies by her side. There is a knock at the door on the left.

Miss Tracer.

[Calling out.] Eh?

[The door opens and Leonard Westrip appears. He carries a pile of press-cuttings.

Westrip.

[A fresh-coloured, boyish young man.] I beg your pardon——[seeing that Miss Tracer is alone] oh, good morning.

Miss Tracer.

Good morning.

Westrip.

[Entering and closing the door.] Lady Filson isn't down yet?

Miss Tracer.

No. [Tossing the picture-paper onto the round table.] She didn't get to bed till pretty late last night, I suspect.

Westrip.

[Advancing.] I thought she'd like to look through these. [Showing Miss Tracer the press-cuttings.] From the press-cutting agency.

Miss Tracer.

[Picking up her note-book and rising.] You bet she would!

Westrip.

[Handing her the press-cuttings.] Let me have them back again, please. Sir Randle hardly had time to glance at them before he went out.

Miss Tracer.

[Inquisitively, elevating her eyebrows.] He's out very early?

Westrip.

Yes; he's gone to a memorial service.

Miss Tracer.

Another! [With a twinkle.] That's the third this month.

Westrip.

So it is. I'm awfully sorry for him.

Miss Tracer.

[Laughing slyly.] He, he, he! Ho, ho!

Westrip.

[Surprised.] What is there to laugh at, Miss Tracer?

Miss Tracer.

You don't believe he has ever really known half the people he mourns, do you?

Westrip.

Not known them!

Miss Tracer.

[Crossing to the writing-table and laying the press-cuttings upon it.] Guileless youth! Wait till you've breathed the air of this establishment a little longer.

Westrip.

[Puzzled.] But if he hasn't known them, why should he——?

Miss Tracer.

For the sake of figuring among a lot of prominent personages, of course.

Westrip.

[Incredulously.] Oh, Miss Tracer!

Miss Tracer.

Gospel. [Taking up the press-cuttings and looking through them.] Many are the sympathetic souls who are grief-stricken in these days for the same reason. Here we are! [Reading from a cutting.] Late Viscount Petersfield ... memorial service ... St. Margaret's, Westminster ... among those present ... h'm, h'm, h'm ... Sir Randle Filson ... wreaths were sent by ... h'm, h'm, h'm, h'm ... Sir Randle and Lady Filson! [Replacing the press-cuttings upon the table.] Ha, ha, ha, ha—! [Checking herself and turning to Westrip.] Our conversation is strictly private, Mr. Westrip?

Westrip.

[Somewhat disturbed.] Strictly.

Miss Tracer.

[Smiling at him winningly and moving to the settee before the fireplace.] You're a nice boy; I'm sure you wouldn't make mischief. [Sinking on to the settee with a yawn.] Oh! Oh, I'm so weary!

Westrip.

Weary? Before you've begun your morning's work!

Miss Tracer.

Before I've begun it! I had a parade downstairs in the servants' hall at a quarter-to-ten.

Westrip.

Parade?

Miss Tracer.

We've two new women in the house who are perfect idiots. They can't remember to say "yes, my lady" and "no, my lady" and "very good, my lady" whenever Lady Filson speaks to them. One of them actually addressed her yesterday as "ma'am." I wonder the roof didn't fall in.

Westrip.

[Meditatively.] I've noticed that Sir Randle and Lady Filson have a great relish for being Sir'd and Lady'd.

Miss Tracer.

Ha, ha! Rather! [Over her shoulder.] You take a friendly hint. If your predecessor had Sir Randle'd and Lady Filson'd them more frequently, you wouldn't be standing in his shoes at this moment.

Westrip.

[In the middle of the room, his hands in his pockets.] Why was Sir Randle knighted, do you know?

Miss Tracer.

Built a large drill-hall for the Territorials near his country place at Bramsfold.

Westrip.

[Innocently.] Oh, is he interested in the Territorials?

Miss Tracer.

[Partly raising herself.] Interested in the Territorials! How simple you are! He cares as much for the Territorials as I care for snakes. [Kneeling upon the settee and resting her arms on the back of it, talkatively.] The drill-hall was her notion; she engineered the whole affair.

Westrip.

[Opening his eyes wider and wider.] Lady Filson?

Miss Tracer.

[Nodding.] Her maid's my informant. A few years ago he was growing frightfully down-in-the-mouth. He fancied he'd got stuck, as it were—that everybody was getting an honour but himself. So the blessed shanty was run up in a devil of a hurry—excuse my Greek; and as soon as it was dry, Mrs. Filson, as she then was, wrote to some big-wig or other—without her husband's knowledge, she explained—and called attention to the service he'd rendered to the cause of patriotism. Lambert saw the draft of the letter on her mistress's dressing-table. [Shaking with laughter.] Ho, ho, ho! And what d'ye think?

Westrip.

W-well?

Miss Tracer.

The corrections were in his handwriting!

Westrip.

[Shocked.] In Sir Randle's——!

Miss Tracer.

[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——?