The scene is a room, elegantly decorated, in a flat in South Audley Street. On the right, two windows give a view, through muslin curtains, of the opposite houses. In the wall facing the spectator are two doors, one on the right, the other on the left. The left-hand door opens into the room from a dimly-lighted corridor, the door on the right from the dining-room. Between the doors there is a handsome fireplace. No fire is burning and the grate is banked with flowers. When the dining-room door is opened, a sideboard and a side-table are seen in the further room, upon which are dishes of fruit, an array of ice-plates and finger-bowls, liqueurs in decanters, glasses, silver, etc.

The pictures, the ornaments upon the mantelpiece, and the articles of furniture are few but choice. A high-backed settee stands on the right of the fireplace; near the settee is a fauteuil-stool; facing the settee is a Charles II arm-chair. On the left of the room there is a small table with a chair beside it; on the right, not far from the nearer window, are a writing-table and writing-chair. Pieces of bric-a-brac lie upon the tables, where there are also some graceful statuettes in ivory and bronze. Another high-backed settee fills the space between the windows, and in each window there is an arm-chair of the same period as the one at the fireplace.

The street is full of sunlight.

[ROBERT ROOPE, seated at the writing-table, is sealing
a letter. NOYES enters at the door on the left,
followed by PHILIP MACKWORTH.

NOYES.

[Announcing PHILIP.] Mr. Mackworth.

ROOPE.

[A simple-looking gentleman of fifty, scrupulously attired jumping up and shaking hands warmly with PHILIP as the servant withdraws.] My dear Phil!

PHILIP.

[A negligently almost shabbily dressed man in his late thirties, with a handsome but worn face.] My dear Robbie!

ROOPE.

A triumph, to have dragged you out! [Looking at his watch.] Luncheon isn’t till a quarter-to-two. I asked you for half-past-one because I want to have a quiet little jaw with you beforehand.

PHILIP.

Delightful.

ROOPE.

Er I’d better tell you at once, old chap, whom you’ll meet here to-day.

PHILIP.

Aha! Your tone presages a most distinguished guest. [Seating himself in the chair by the small table.] Is she a grande-duchesse, or is he a crowned head?

ROOPE.

[Smiling rather uneasily.] Wait. I work up to my great effect by degrees. We shall only be six. Collingham Green

PHILIP.

[In disgust.] Oh, lord!

ROOPE.

Now, Phil, don’t be naughty.

PHILIP.

The fellow who does the Society gossip for the Planet!

ROOPE.

And does it remarkably neatly, in my opinion.

PHILIP.

Pouah! [Leaning back in his chair, his legs outstretched, and spouting.] “Mrs. Trevelyan Potter, wearing a gown of yellow charmeuse exquisitely draped with chiffon, gave a dance for her niece Miss Hermione Stubbs at the Ritz Hotel last night.” That sort o’ stuff!

ROOPE.

[Pained.] Somebody has to supply it.

PHILIP.

“Pretty Mrs. Claud Grymes came on from the opera in her pearls, and Lady Beakly looked younger than her daughter in blue.”

ROOPE.

[Ruefully.] You don’t grow a bit more reasonable, Phil; not a bit.

PHILIP.

I beg pardon. Go ahead.

ROOPE.

[Sitting on the fauteuil-stool.] Mrs. Godfrey Anslow and Mrs. Wally Quebec. Abuse them.

PHILIP.

Bless their innocent hearts! They’ll be glad to meet Mr. Green.

ROOPE.

I trust so.

PHILIP.

[Scowling.] A couple of pushing, advertising women.

ROOPE.

Really!

PHILIP.

Ha, ha! Sorry. That’s five, with you and me.

ROOPE.

That’s five, as you justly observe. [Clearing his throat.] H’m! H’m!

PHILIP.

The sixth? I prepare myself for your great effect.

ROOPE.

[With an effort.] Er Madame de Chaumie is in London, Phil.

PHILIP.

[Sitting upright.] Madame de Chaumie! [Disturbed.] Is she coming?

ROOPE.

Y-y-yes.

PHILIP.

[Rising.] Confound you, Robbie!

ROOPE.

[Hastily.] She has got rid of her house in Paris and rejoined her people. She’s with them in Ennismore Gardens.

PHILIP.

Thank you, I’m aware of it. One reads of Ottoline’s movements in every rag one picks up. [Walking over to the right.] She’s the biggest chasseuse of the crowd.

ROOPE.

I assure you she appears very much altered.

PHILIP.

What, can the leopard change his spots!

ROOPE.

Her family may still bang the big drum occasionally, and give it an extra whack on her account; but Ottoline herself

PHILIP.

Faugh! [Returning to ROOPE.] Why the devil have you done this?

ROOPE.

[Feebly.] I confess, in the hope of bringing about a reconciliation.

PHILIP.

You you good-natured old meddler. [Quickly.] Does she expect to find me here?

ROOPE.

No.

PHILIP.

[Making for the door on the left.] I’ll bolt, then.

ROOPE.

[Rising and seizing him.] You shall do nothing of the kind. [Forcing him down upon the fauteuil-stool.] You’ll upset my luncheon-table! [Tidying himself.] You’re most inconsiderate; you are positively. And you’ve disarranged my necktie.

PHILIP.

[In a low voice.] How is she looking, Robbie?

ROOPE.

Brilliant. [Putting his necktie in order.] Is that straight? Brilliant.

PHILIP.

[Gazing into space.] Ten years ago, old man!

ROOPE.

Quite.

PHILIP.

It was at her father and mother’s, in Paris, that I made your acquaintance. Recollect?

ROOPE.

Perfectly; in the Avenue Montaigne. I had a flat in the Palais-Royal at the time.

PHILIP.

[Scornfully.] You were one of the smart set. It was worth their while to get hold of you.

ROOPE.

My dear Phil, do be moderately fair. You weren’t in the smart set.

PHILIP.

No; I was trying my hand at journalism in those days. Dreadful trade! I was Paris correspondent to the Whitehall Gazette. That’s why I was favoured. [Abruptly.] Robbie

ROOPE.

Hey?

PHILIP.

You’ll scarcely credit it. One evening, while I was at work, Ottoline turned up with her maid at my lodgings in the Rue Soufflot, sent the maid out of the room, and proposed that I should “mention” her family in my letters to the Whitehall.

ROOPE.

Mention them?

PHILIP.

Drag in allusions to ’em constantly their entertainments and so forth; boom them, in fact.

ROOPE.

Was that the cause of the the final?

PHILIP.

[Nodding.] Yes. The following week her engagement to de Chaumie was announced.

ROOPE.

[After a slight pause.] Well, in spite of all this, I’m convinced she was genuinely attached to you, Phil as fond of you as you were of her.

PHILIP.

[Resting his head on his hands.] Oh, shut up!

ROOPE.

Anyhow, here’s an opportunity of testing it, dear excellent friend. She’s been a widow twelve months; you need have no delicacy on that score.

PHILIP.

[Looking up.] Why, do you suggest?

ROOPE.

Certainly; and without delay. I hear there’s a shoal of men after her, including Tim Barradell.

PHILIP.

[With a grim smile.] “Bacon” Barradell?

ROOPE.

[Assentingly.] They say Sir Timothy’s in constant attendance.

PHILIP.

And what chance, do you imagine, would a poor literary cove stand against a real live baronet and the largest bacon-curer in Ireland?

ROOPE.

[Rubbing his chin.] You never know. Women are romantic creatures. She might prefer the author of those absorbing works of fiction whose pages often wrap up Tim Barradell’s rashers.

PHILIP.

[Rising.] Ha, ha, ha! [Giving himself a shake.] Even so it can’t be done, Robbie; though I’m grateful to you for your amiable little plot. [Walking about.] Heavens above, if Ottoline married me, she’d be puffing my wares on the sly before the honeymoon was half over!

ROOPE.

And a jolly good job too. [Moving to the left, peevishly.] The truth is, my dear Phil, you’re a crank an absolute crank on the subject of the ah the natural desire of some people to keep themselves in the public eye. Mercy on us, if it comes to that, I’m an advertiser!

PHILIP.

If it comes to that, you miserable old sinner, you are.

ROOPE.

I admit it, frankly. I own it gratifies me exceedingly to see my little dinner-parties and tea-parties, here or at my club, chronicled in the press. And it gratifies my friends also. Many of them wouldn’t honour me at all if my list of guests wasn’t in the fashionable intelligence next morning.

PHILIP.

Oh!

ROOPE.

Yes, you may roar. I declare I shudder to think of the difference it ’ud make to me socially if I didn’t advertise.

PHILIP.

Robbie, I blush for you.

ROOPE.

Tosh! It’s an advertising age.

PHILIP.

[Stalking to the fireplace.] It’s a beastly vulgar age.

ROOPE.

It’s the age I happen to live in, and I accommodate myself to it. [Pacing the room as he warms to his theme.] And if it’s necessary for a private individual such as myself to advertise, as I maintain it is, how much more necessary is it for you to do so a novelist, a poet, a would-be playwright, a man with something to sell! Dash it, they’ve got to advertise soap, and soap’s essential! Why not literature, which isn’t? And yet you won’t find the name of Mr. Philip Mackworth in the papers from one year’s end to another, except in a scrubby criticism now and again.

PHILIP.

[Calmly.] Excuse me, there are the publisher’s announcements.

ROOPE.

Publishers’ announcements! I’m not speaking of the regular advertising columns. What I want to see are paragraphs concerning you mixed up with the news of the day, information about you and your habits, interviews with you, letters from you on every conceivable topic

PHILIP.

[Grinning.] Do you!

ROOPE.

[Joining PHILIP.] Oh, my dear Phil, I entreat you, feed the papers! It isn’t as if you hadn’t talent; you have. Advertising minus talent goes a long way; advertising plus talent is irresistible. Feed the papers. The more you do for them, the more they’ll do for you. Quid pro quo. To the advertiser shall advertisement be given. Newspaper men are the nicest chaps in the world. Feed them gratis with bright and amusin’ “copy,” as you term it, and they’ll love and protect you for ever.

PHILIP.

Not for ever, Robbie. Whom the press loves die young.

ROOPE.

Its fickle, you mean some day itll turn and rend you? Perhaps. Still, if you make hay while the sun shines

PHILIP.

The sun! You don’t call that the sun! [Disdainfully.] P’ssh!

ROOPE.

[Leaving him.] Oh, I’ve no patience with you! [Spluttering.] Upon my word, your hatred of publicity is is is is morbid. It’s worse than morbid it’s Victorian. [Sitting in the chair by the small table.] There! I can’t say anything severer.

PHILIP.

[Advancing.] Yes, but wait a moment, Robbie. Who says I have a hatred of publicity? I haven’t said anything so absurd. Don’t I write for the public?

ROOPE.

Exactly!

PHILIP.

[Standing near ROOPE.] I have no dislike for publicity for fame. By George, sir, I covet it, if I can win it honestly and decently!

ROOPE.

[Shrugging his shoulders.] Ah!

PHILIP.

And I humble myself before the men and women of my craft and they are many who succeed in winning it in that fashion, or who are content to remain obscure. But for the rest the hustlers of the pen, the seekers after mere blatant applause, the pickers-up of cheap popularity I’ve a profound contempt for them and their methods.

ROOPE.

You can’t deny the ability of some of ’em.

PHILIP.

Deny it! Of course I dont deny it. But no amount of ability, of genius if you will, absolves the follower of any art from the obligation of conducting himself as a modest gentleman

ROOPE.

Ah, there’s where you’re so hopelessly Victorian and out o’ date!

PHILIP.

Well, that’s my creed; and, whether I’ve talent or not, I’d rather snuff out, when my time comes, neglected and a pauper than go back on it. [Walking away and pacing the room.] Oh, but I’m not discouraged, my dear Robbie not a scrap! I’m not discouraged, though you do regard me as a dismal failure.

ROOPE.

[Deprecatingly.] No, no!

PHILIP.

I shall collar the great public yet. You mark me, I shall collar ’em yet, and without stooping to the tricks and devices you advocate! [Returning to ROOPE.] Robbie

ROOPE.

[Rising.] Hey?

PHILIP.

[Laying his hands on ROOPE_’s shoulders._] If my next book my autumn book isn’t a mighty go, I I’ll eat my hat.

ROOPE.

[Sadly.] Dear excellent friend, perhaps you’ll be obliged to, for nourishment.

PHILIP.

Ha, ha, ha! [Taking ROOPE_’s arm._] Oddly enough oddly enough, the story deals with the very subject we’ve been discussing.

ROOPE.

[Without enthusiasm.] Indeed?

PHILIP.

Yes. You hit on the title a few minutes ago.

ROOPE.

Really?

PHILIP.

When you were talking of Ottoline and her people. [Dropping his voice.] “The Big Drum.”

ROOPE.

[Thoughtfully.] C-c-capital!

PHILIP.

Titterton, my new publisher, is tremendously taken with the scheme of the thing keen as mustard about it.

ROOPE.

Er pardon me, Phil

PHILIP.

Eh?

ROOPE.

[Fingering the lapel of PHILIP’s coat.] I say, old man, you wouldn’t be guilty of the deplorably bad taste of putting me into it, would you?

PHILIP.

[Slapping him on the back.] Ha, ha! My dear Robbie, half the polite world is in it. Don’t tell me you wish to be left out in the cold!

ROOPE.

[Thoroughly alarmed.] Dear excellent friend!

[NOYES enters again at the door on the left, preceding
COLLINGHAM GREEN.

NOYES.

[Announcing GREEN, and then retiring.] Mr. Collingham Green.

GREEN.

[A gaily-dressed, genial soul, with a flower in his button-hole, a monocle, a waxed moustache, and a skilful arrangement of a sparse head of hair shaking hands with ROOPE.] How are you, my deah fellow?

ROOPE.

My dear Colly, delighted to see you.

GREEN.

An awful scramble to get heah. I was afraid I shouldn’t be able to manage it.

ROOPE.

You’d have broken our hearts if you hadn’t. You know Mackworth?

GREEN.

And his charming works. [Shaking hands with PHILIP.] Haven’t met you for evah so long.

PHILIP.

How d’ye do?

GREEN.

Ouf! I must sit down. [Sitting on the fauteuil-stool and taking off a pair of delicately tinted gloves.] The Season is killing me. I’m shaw I sha’n’t last till Goodwood, Robbie.

ROOPE.

Yes, it’s a shockin’ rush, isn’t it!

GREEN.

Haw! You only fancy you’re rushed. Your life is a rest-cure compared with mine. You’ve no conception, either of you, what my days are just now.

PHILIP.

[Finding himself addressed.] Exhausting, no doubt.

GREEN.

Take to-day, for example. I was in my bath at half-past-seven

ROOPE.

Half-past-seven!

GREEN.

Though I wasnt in bed till two this morning. At eight I had a cup of coffee and a piece of dry toast, and skimmed the papers. From eight-thirty till ten I dictated a special article on our modern English hostesses The Hostesses of England: Is Hospitality Declining?, a question I answer in the negative

ROOPE.

[In a murmur.] Quite right.

GREEN.

At ten o’clock, a man from Clapp and Beazley’s with some patterns of socks and underwear. Disposed of him, dressed, and by a quarter-to-eleven I was in the Park. Strolled up and down with Lady Ventnor and Sir Hill Birch and saw everybody there was to be seen. I nevah make a single note; my memory’s marvellous. Left the Park at twelve and took a taxi to inquire after Lord Harrogate, Charlie Sievewright, and old Lady Dorcas Newnham. I’m not boring you?

ROOPE.

Boring us!

GREEN.

Lady Dorcas caught sight of me from her window and hailed me in. I sat with her for twenty minutes “Greenie” she always calls me [mimicking] “Now, Greenie, what’s the noos?” Haw, haw, haw! I walked away from Lady Dorcas’s, and was in Upper Grosvenor Street punctually at one. [To ROOPE.] There’s been a meeting at the Baroness Van der Meer’s to-day, you know, over this fête at the Albert Hall.

ROOPE.

Ah, yes; I’m to be in Lady Freddy Hoyle’s Plantagenet group. I’m a knight in attendance on King John.

GREEN.

I had a short private chat with the Baroness, and followed her into the drawing-room. They were still at it when I sneaked out at a side door, and heah I am.

ROOPE.

Extraordinary! Hey, Phil?

PHILIP.

[Leaning against the chair by the writing-table, dryly.] Most interesting.

GREEN.

[To PHILIP, rising.] I lunch with Roope [to ROOPE] you’ll have to let me off at three, Robbie and then my grind begins again.

ROOPE.

[Throwing up his hands in admiration.] Oh!

GREEN.

Horse Show, two musical parties Lady Godalming’s and Mrs. Reggie Mosenstein’s; then home and more dictation to my secretary. Dine with Sir Patrick and Lady Logan at the Carlton, and then to the Opera with my spy-glass. From Covent Garden I dash down to Fleet Street, write my late stuff, and my day’s done unless I’ve strength left for Lady Ronaldshaw’s dance and a crush at Mrs. Hume-Cutler’s.

ROOPE.

[Repeating his former action.] Oh! Oh!

[NOYES reappears.

NOYES.

Mrs. Walter Quebec.

[MRS. WALTER QUEBEC enters and NOYES withdraws.

ROOPE.

[Taking MRS. QUEBEC’s hand.] My dear Mrs. Wally, how are you?

MRS. QUEBEC.

[A bright, energetic, fairly young lady.] How’r you, Robbie? Walter is so grieved; he’s lunching at the Auto with Tony Baxter. He did try to wriggle out of it [Discovering GREEN and going to him with her hand extended.] Oh, I am glad! You’re just the man I’m dying to see.

GREEN.

[Kissing her hand.] Haw!

MRS. QUEBEC.

Lady Skewes and I are getting up a concert in aid of the poor sufferers from the earthquake in what’s the name of the place? I forget Lady Skewes knows it and we want you to say a lot about us in your darling paper. Only distinguished amateurs; that’s where the novelty comes in. Lady Skewes is going to play the violin, if she can pull herself together she hasn’t played for centuries [seeing PHILIP, advancing, and shaking hands with him casually] how d’ye do? [to GREEN] and I’ve promised to sing.

GREEN.

Splendid.

ROOPE.

But how captivating!

MRS. QUEBEC.

[To GREEN.] I’ve sung so seldom since my marriage, and they’ve had such a difficulty to lure me out of my tiny wee shell. Would you mind dwelling on that a little?

GREEN.

Of course not; anything I can do, deah lady

MRS. QUEBEC.

That’s too utterly sweet of you. You shall have full particulars to-morrow. I wouldn’t bother you, but it’s charity, isn’t it? Oh, and there’s something else I want you to be kind over!

[NOYES returns.

NOYES.

Mrs. Godfrey Anslow.

[The HON. MRS. GODFREY ANSLOW enters and NOYES goes
out again.

MRS. ANSLOW.

[A tall, languishing woman with a toneless drawl to ROOPE.] Am I late?

ROOPE.

[Pressing her hand.] Not a second, my very dear friend.

MRS. ANSLOW.

Can’t help it if I am. My car got smashed up last week in Roehampton Lane, and the motor people have lent me the original ark, on wheels. [MRS. QUEBEC comes to her.] Hullo, Esme!

MRS. QUEBEC.

[Shaking hands.] How’r you, Millicent?

MRS. ANSLOW.

[Going to GREEN and giving him her hand.] Oh, and here’s that horrid Mr. Green!

GREEN.

My deah Mrs. Anslow!

MRS. QUEBEC.

Horrid! What’s he done? [Sitting in the chair by the small table.] I consider him a white-robed angel.

MRS. ANSLOW.

I sent him a long account of my accident at Roehampton and he hasn’t condescended to take the slightest notice of it.

MRS. QUEBEC.

Oh, Mr. Green!

MRS. ANSLOW.

[To GREEN.] It’s cruel of you.

GREEN.

[To MRS. ANSLOW, twiddling his moustache.] Alack and alas, deah lady, motor collisions are not quite in my line!

MRS. ANSLOW.

You might have passed it on to the accident man. Or you could have said that I’m to be seen riding in the Row evidently none the worse for my recent shock. That’s in your line.

GREEN.

Haw! I might have done that, certainly. [Tapping his brow.] Fact is height of the Season perfectly distracted

MRS. ANSLOW.

[With the air of a martyr.] It doesnt matter. I shant trouble you again. Ive never been a favourite of yours

GREEN.

[Appealingly.] Haw! Don’t!

MRS. ANSLOW.

It’s true. I was one of the few stall-holders at the Army and Navy Bazaar whose gowns you didn’t describe [Seeing PHILIP and nodding to him hazily.] How d’ye do?

ROOPE.

[Prompting her.] Mr. Mackworth

[MRS. ANSLOW goes to PHILIP and proffers him a limp
hand. GREEN retreats to the fireplace and MRS. QUEBEC
rises and pursues him.

MRS. ANSLOW.

[To PHILIP.] I think we met once at my cousins’, the Fairfields’.

PHILIP.

[Bowing.] Yes.

MRS. ANSLOW.

You write, don’t you?

PHILIP.

[Evasively.] Oh!

ROOPE.

[Joining them.] My dear Mrs. Anslow, Mr. Mackworth is one of the most gifted authors of the present day.

PHILIP.

[Glaring at ROOPE.] Tsssh!

ROOPE.

[To MRS. ANSLOW.] Get his books from your library instantly. I envy you the treat in store for you

[NOYES again appears.

NOYES.

Madame de Chaumie.

[OTTOLINE DE CHAUMIE enters a beautiful, pale, elegant young woman of three-and-thirty, with a slightly foreign air and perfect refinement of manner. NOYES retires. Everybody is manifestly pleased to see OTTOLINE, except PHILIP who picks up a little figure from the writing-table and examines it critically.

ROOPE.

[Hurrying to her and taking her hand.] Ah!

OTTOLINE.

Robbie dear!

MRS. QUEBEC.

[Going to OTTOLINE.] Oh! [They embrace.] This is lovely!

OTTOLINE.

[To MRS. ANSLOW, who comes to her.] Millicent! [To GREEN, who bustles forward and kisses her hand.] How do you do?

MRS. QUEBEC.

[To OTTOLINE.] You didn’t stay long at the Railtons’ last night, Ottoline.

OTTOLINE.

I had a headache mother was so vexed with me

MRS. ANSLOW.

Headache or not, you looked divine.

MRS. QUEBEC.

A vision!

GREEN.

[To OTTOLINE.] Haw! I hope you saw the remarks about you in this morning’s papah, deah lady.

OTTOLINE.

[To GREEN.] For shame, Mr. Green! Have you been flattering me again?

GREEN.

Haw, haw, haw, haw!

ROOPE.

[Standing near PHILIP.] Madame de Chaumie

OTTOLINE.

[Advancing.] Yes?

ROOPE.

Here’s an old friend of ours whom you haven’t met for years Mackworth.

[She starts and then waits, rooted, for PHILIP’s approach. He replaces the figure carefully and comes to her, and their hands touch. ROOPE leaves them and engages the others in conversation.

OTTOLINE.

[To PHILIP, in a low voice, her eyes sparkling.] I had no idea I was to have this pleasure.

PHILIP.

[Gently, but without exceeding the bounds of mere courtesy.] Robbie excels in surprises; he has been almost equally reserved with me. Are you very well?

OTTOLINE.

Very. And you?

PHILIP.

Very. And Sir Randle and Lady Filson?

OTTOLINE.

Quite well and my brother Bertram. [Chilled.] Perhaps you’ve heard that I am making my home with them now in London, permanently that I’ve left Paris?

PHILIP.

Robbie and the newspapers have told me. It’s late in the day to do it may I offer you my sympathy?

OTTOLINE.

[With a stately inclination of the head.] Thank you. And I my congratulations on your success?

PHILIP.

[Quietly.] Success!

OTTOLINE.

[Comprehending.] Ah? Le public est si bête. I’ve read every line you’ve written, I believe. [He bows.] I I have felt proud to think that we were once that we were once not des inconnus.

[He bows again, and there is silence between them. The dining-room door opens and NOYES presents himself. A waiter is seen in the dining-room, standing at the side table.

NOYES.

[To ROOPE.] Lunch is served, sir.

ROOPE.

[To everybody.] Come along! Come along, dear excellent friends! [OTTOLINE smiles graciously at PHILIP and turns from him.] Lead the way, dear Mrs. Anslow. Madame de Chaumie! [MRS. ANSLOW slips her arm through OTTOLINE.] You both sit opposite the fireplace. Dear Mrs. Wally! Come along, my dear Phil! [Putting an arm round GREEN_’s shoulder._] Colly!

[They all move into the dining-room, and the curtain falls. It rises again almost immediately. A chair, withdrawn from the further window, is now beside the fauteuil-stool, on its right; and the chair which was close to the small table has been pulled out into the room, and faces the fauteuil-stool at some little distance from it. The doors are closed. MRS. ANSLOW and MRS. QUEBEC are taking their departure. The former is saying good-bye to OTTOLINE, who is standing before the fireplace; the latter is talking to ROOPE near the door on the left. On the right is PHILIP, ready to receive his share of the adieux.

MRS. ANSLOW.

[Shaking hands with OTTOLINE.] Good-bye. You might come on to Olympia; my sister-in-law’s box holds six.

OTTOLINE.

Sorry. I really am full up this afternoon. [MRS. QUEBEC comes to OTTOLINE as MRS. ANSLOW goes to PHILIP. ROOPE opens the door on the left and remains there, waiting to escort the ladies to the outer door.] Can I give you a lift anywhere, Esme?

MRS. QUEBEC.

Thanks; Millicent’s taking me along with her to the Horse Show.

MRS. ANSLOW.

[Shaking hands with PHILIP.] Very pleased to meet you again. Ever see anything now of the Fairfields?

PHILIP.

Never.

MRS. ANSLOW.

No loss. I believe dear old Eustace is off his head.

PHILIP.

Possibly.

MRS. ANSLOW.

[Tolerantly.] But then, so many people are off their heads, aren’t they?

PHILIP.

A great many.

MRS. ANSLOW.

[Bestowing a parting nod upon PHILIP and crossing to the open door.] Sha’n’t wait, Esme. It’s a month’s journey to Hammersmith in the ark.

MRS. QUEBEC.

[Kissing OTTOLINE.] Good-bye.

MRS. ANSLOW.

[To ROOPE.] Charming lunch. Enjoyed myself enormously.

MRS. QUEBEC.

[Shaking hands with PHILIP hastily.] Good-bye, Mr. Mackworth.

PHILIP.

Good-bye.

[ROOPE and MRS. ANSLOW have disappeared; MRS. QUEBEC
follows them. OTTOLINE approaches PHILIP slowly.

OTTOLINE.

[Giving him her hand.] Good-bye.

PHILIP.

[Bending over it formally.] Good-bye.

OTTOLINE.

We we’re in Ennismore Gardens, you know. [He acknowledges the information by a stiff bow. She interests herself in her glove-buttons.] You you’ve chosen to drop out of my out of our lives so completely that I hardly like to ask you to come and see us.

PHILIP.

[Constrainedly.] You are very good; but I I dont go about much in these days, and Im afraid

OTTOLINE.

[Quickly.] Oh, I’m sure you’re wise. [Drawing herself erect.] A writer shouldn’t give up to society what is meant for mankind, should he?

[She passes him distantly, to leave the room, and he
suddenly grips her shoulder.

PHILIP.

Ottoline!

[By a mutual impulse, they glance swiftly at the open
door, and then she throws herself into his arms.

OTTOLINE.

Philip!

[Just as swiftly, they separate; and a moment
afterwards ROOPE returns, rubbing his hands cheerily.

ROOPE.

[Advancing, but not shutting the door.] There! Now we’re by ourselves! [To OTTOLINE.] You’re not running away?

OTTOLINE.

[Confused.] Oh, I I

ROOPE.

It’s only half-past-three. Why don’t you and Mackworth sit down and have a little talk together? [To PHILIP, who has strolled to the further window and is looking into the street.] You’re in no hurry, Phil?

PHILIP.

Not in the least.

ROOPE.

[Crossing to the writing-table.] I’ll finish answering my letters; I sha’n’t have a moment later on. [Gathering up his correspondence.] You won’t disturb me; I’ll polish ’em off in another room. [To OTTOLINE.] Are you goin’ to Lady Paulton’s by-and-by, by any chance?

OTTOLINE.

[Again at the fireplace, her back to ROOPE and PHILIP.] And Mrs. Jack Cathcarts and Mrs. Le Roys

ROOPE.

You shall take me to Lowndes Square, if you will. [Recrossing.] Sha’n’t be more than ten minutes. [At the door.] Ten minutes, dear excellent friends. A quarter-of-an-hour at the outside.

[He vanishes, closing the door. There is a pause, and
then PHILIP and OTTOLINE turn to one another and he
goes to her.

OTTOLINE.

[Her hands in his, breathlessly.] You are glad to see me, then! [Laughing shyly.] Ha, ha! You are glad!

PHILIP.

[Tenderly.] Yes.

OTTOLINE.

You brute, Phil, to make me behave in such an undignified way!

PHILIP.

If there’s any question of dignity, what on earth has become of mine? I was the first to break down.

OTTOLINE.

To break down! Why should you try to treat me so freezingly? You can’t be angry with me still, after all these years! C’est pas possible!

PHILIP.

It was stupid of me to attempt to hide my feelings. [Pressing her hand to his lips.] But, my dear Otto my dear girl where’s the use of our coming into each other’s lives again?

OTTOLINE.

The use? Why shouldn’t we be again as we were in the old Paris days [embarrassed] well, not quite, perhaps?

PHILIP.

[Smiling.] Oh, of course, if you command it, I am ready to buy some smart clothes, and fish for opportunities of meeting you occasionally on a crowded staircase or in a hot supper-room. But as for anything else

OTTOLINE.

[Slowly withdrawing her hands and putting them behind her.] As for anything else?

PHILIP.

I repeat cui bono? [Regarding her kindly but penetratingly.] What would be the result of your reviving a friendship with an ill-tempered, intolerant person who would be just as capable to-morrow of turning upon you like a savage?

OTTOLINE.

Ah, you are still angry with me! [With a change of tone.] As you did that evening, for instance, when I came with Nannette to your shabby little den in the Rue Soufflot

PHILIP.

Precisely.

OTTOLINE.

[Walking away to the front of the fauteuil-stool.] To beg you to prôner my father and mother in the journal you were writing for what was the name of it?

PHILIP.

[Following her.] The Whitehall Gazette.

OTTOLINE.

And you were polite enough to tell me that my cravings and ideals were low, pitiful, ignoble!

PHILIP.

[Regretfully.] You remember?

OTTOLINE.

[Facing him.] As clearly as you do, my friend. [Laying her hand upon his arm, melting.] Besides, they were true those words hideously true as were many other sharp ones you shot at me in Paris. [Turning from him.] Low pitiful ignoble!

PHILIP.

Otto!

[She seats herself in the chair by the fauteuil-stool
and motions him to sit by her. He does so.

OTTOLINE.

Yes, they were true; but they are true of me no longer. I am greatly changed, Philip.

PHILIP.

[Eyeing her.] You are more beautiful than ever.

OTTOLINE.

H’sh! changed in my character, disposition, view of things. Life has gone sadly with me since we parted.

PHILIP.

Indeed? I I’m grieved.

OTTOLINE.

My marriage was an utter failure. You heard?

PHILIP.

[Shaking his head.] No.

OTTOLINE.

No? [Smiling faintly.] I thought everybody hears when a marriage is a failure. [Mournfully.] The fact remains; it was a terrible mistake. Poor Lucien! I dont blame him for my nine years of unhappiness. I engaged myself to him in a hurry out of pique

PHILIP.

Pique?

OTTOLINE.

Within a few hours of that fatal visit of mine to your lodgings. [Looking at him significantly.] It was that that drove me to it.

PHILIP.

[Staring at her.] That!

OTTOLINE.

[Simply.] Yes, Phil.

PHILIP.

Otto!

OTTOLINE.

[Plucking at the arm of her chair.] You see you see, notwithstanding the vulgarity of my mind, I had a deep respect for you. Even then there were wholesome signs in me! [Shrugging her shoulders plaintively.] Whether I should have ended by obeying my better instincts, and accepting you, I can’t say. I believe I should. I I believe I should. At any rate, I had already begun to chafe under the consciousness that, while you loved me, you had no esteem for me.

PHILIP.

[Remorsefully.] My dear!

OTTOLINE.

[Raising her head.] That scene between us in the Rue Soufflot set my blood on fire. To have a request refused me was sufficiently mortifying; but to be whipped, scourged, scarified, into the bargain! I flew down your stairs after I left you, and drove home, scorching with indignation; and next morning I sent for Lucien a blind adorer! and promised to be his wife. [Leaning back.] Comprenez-vous, maintenant? Solely to hurt you; to hurt you, the one man among my acquaintances whom I admired!

[She searches for her handkerchief. He rises and goes
to the mantelpiece and stares at the flowers in the
grate.

PHILIP.

[Almost inaudibly.] Oh, Otto!

OTTOLINE.

[Wiping a tear from her cheek.] Heigh, dear me! Whenever I go over the past, and that’s not seldom, I can’t help thinking you might have been a little gentler with me a girl of three-and-twenty and have made allowances. [Blowing her nose.] What was Dad before he went out to Buenos Aires with his wife and children; only a junior partner in a small concern in the City! Wasn’t it natural that, when he came back to Europe, prosperous but a nobody, he should be eager to elbow himself into a respectable social position, and that his belongings should have caught the fever?

PHILIP.

[Wretchedly.] Yes yes

OTTOLINE.

[Rising and wandering to the writing-table.] First we descended upon Paris you know; but Paris didnt respond very satisfactorily. Plenty of smart men flocked round us la belle Mademoiselle Filson drew them to the Avenue Montaigne!

PHILIP.

[Under his breath, turning.] T’scht!

OTTOLINE.

But the women were either hopelessly bourgeoises or slightly declassee. [Inspecting some of the pieces of bric-a-brac upon the table.] Which decided us to attack London and induced me to pay my call on you in the Rue Soufflot

PHILIP.

I understand.

OTTOLINE.

To coax you to herald us in your weekly causeries. [Wincing.] Horrible of me, that was; horrible, horrible, horrible! [Replacing an object upon the table and moving to the other side of the room.] However, I wasn’t destined to share the earliest of the London triumphs. [Bitterly.] Mine awaited me in Paris, and at Vaudemont-Baudricourt, as the Comtesse de Chaumie! [Shivering.] Ugh-h-h-h!

[She is about to sit in the chair on the left when he
comes to her impulsively and restrains her.

PHILIP.

My poor girl!

OTTOLINE.

[With abandon.] Ah!

PHILIP.

My poor dear girl!

OTTOLINE.

It’s a relief to me to open my heart to you, Philip. [He leads her to the fauteuil-stool.] Robbie won’t interrupt us yet awhile, will he?

PHILIP.

We’ll kick him out if he does. [They sit, close together, upon the fauteuil-stool.] Oh, but he wont! This is a deep-laid plot of the old chaps

OTTOLINE.

Plot?

PHILIP.

To invite us here to-day, you and me, to to

OTTOLINE.

Amener un rapprochement?

PHILIP.

Exactly.

OTTOLINE.

[Softly.] Ha, ha! Dear old Robbie! [He laughs with her.] Dear, dear old Robbie! [Her laughter dies out, leaving her with a serious, appealing face.] Phil

PHILIP.

Eh?

OTTOLINE.

Your sneer your sneer about me and the papers

PHILIP.

Sneer?

OTTOLINE.

I detected it. Almost the first thing you said to me when I arrived was that you’d been gathering news of me lately from the papers!

PHILIP.

[Gently.] Forgive me.

OTTOLINE.

It’s been none of my doing; I’ve finished with lé 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.

Theyve been urging me to do it ever since my husbands death; so I had ample time to consider the step. But I didnt realize, till Id 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 force 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 dont 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 Allee de Longchamp and the Champs-Elysees! [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 Allee de Longchamp and the Champs-Elysees, can you tell me?

OTTOLINE.

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

PHILIP.

And the milk at the Cafe d’Armenonville and the Pre-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 lé lait n’est pas cremeux, 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 dont

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 Ive money, Philip

PHILIP.

H’sssh! [Frowning.] Ottoline!

OTTOLINE.

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

PHILIP.

Ha, ha! Peut-être; je ne m’en defends 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 youd 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 oughtnt that I oughtnt 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 étés 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.