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, jardinieres, 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 Chaumie

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 Chaumie 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.] Heres 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 Chaumie, 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 Chaumie 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.] Ill 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 protege! 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 didnt

BERTRAM.

Is it Trefusis?

LADY FILSON.

I believe it’s Delacour.

BERTRAM.

[Walking about.] Possibly! Possibly!

LADY FILSON.

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

BERTRAM.

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

LADY FILSON.

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

BERTRAM.

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

LADY FILSON.

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

BERTRAM.

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

LADY FILSON.

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

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

SIR RANDLE.

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

LADY FILSON.

[Sighing.] Ahhh!

SIR RANDLE.

[Producing a black-edged pocket-handkerchief and unfolding it.] Poor Macfarlane and then this! [Blowing his nose.] Upsetting! Upsetting! [Glancing at BERTRAM.] Does Bertram?

LADY FILSON.

I’ve told him.

BERTRAM.

My dear father, I cannot I cannot profess to regret my sister’s decision. I mean to say!

SIR RANDLE.

[Suddenly.] Nor I. [In an outburst, pacing the room.] Nor I. I must be candid. It’s my nature to be candid. A damned tradesman!

BERTRAM.

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

SIR RANDLE.

[To LADY FILSON, halting.] Who, in your opinion, Winnie?

LADY FILSON.

I’m inclined to think it’s Mr. Delacour.

SIR RANDLE.

[Resuming his walk.] So be it. [Raising his arms.] If I am to lose my child a second time so be it.

BERTRAM.

I venture to suggest it may be Edward Trefusis.

SIR RANDLE.

[To BERTRAM, halting again.] My dear boy, in a matter of this kind, I fancy we can rely on your mother’s wonderful powers of penetration.

BERTRAM.

[Bowing.] Pardon, father.

LADY FILSON.

[Closing her eyes.] “Mrs. George Delacour.”

SIR RANDLE.

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

BERTRAM.

[Closing his eyes.] “90, St. James’s Street

SIR RANDLE.

[Halting and opening his eyes.] One thing I heartily deplore, Winifred

LADY FILSON.

[Opening her eyes.] What is that, Randle?

SIR RANDLE.

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

LADY FILSON.

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

SIR RANDLE.

Ah, yes! An equally good opportunity for an imposing [closing his eyes] and reverential display! [To LADY FILSON.] Lady Maundrell’s girl Sybil, eh, Winnie?

LADY FILSON.

Decidedly. And Lady Eva Sherringham.

BERTRAM.

Lady Lilian and Lady Constance Foxe

SIR RANDLE.

Lady Irene Pallant

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

BERTRAM.

[Reclining upon the settee on the left.] Lady Blanche Finnis

LADY FILSON.

[Seizing her pen.] Wait; don’t be so quick! [Writing.] “Hon. Sybil Maundrell

[The glazed door is opened softly and OTTOLINE
enters. She pauses, looking at the group at the
writing-table.

SIR RANDLE.

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

BERTRAM.

Ladies Lilian and Constance Foxe

LADY FILSON.

[Writing.] “Lady Eva Sherringham Ladies Lilian and Constance Foxe

BERTRAM.

Lady Irene Pallant

SIR RANDLE.

I pray there may be no captious opposition from Ottoline.

LADY FILSON.

Surely she doesn’t want to be married like a middle-class widow from
Putney! [Writing.] “Lady Blanche Finnis

BERTRAM.

If pages are permissible to carry my sisters train, I mean tsay

SIR RANDLE.

Pages yes, yes

BERTRAM.

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

LADY FILSON.

[Writing.] Such picturesque children!

SIR RANDLE.

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

LADY FILSON.

They are country neighbours.

BERTRAM.

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

[OTTOLINE shuts the door with a click. SIR RANDLE
and LADY FILSON turn, startled, and LADY FILSON
slips the list into a drawer.

SIR RANDLE.

[Benignly.] Otto?

OTTOLINE.

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

SIR RANDLE.

Y-you?

OTTOLINE.

[Nodding.] You were too absorbed. I couldn’t help listening.

SIR RANDLE.

Ahem! Sir Timothy didn’t volunteer the information, Ottoline

OTTOLINE.

Peu m’importe! [Advancing, smiling on one side of her mouth.] What a grand wedding you are planning for me! Quel projets mirifiques!

SIR RANDLE.

[Embarrassed.] Your dear mother was er merely jotting down

OTTOLINE.

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

LADY FILSON.

[Rising and moving to the fireplace, complainingly.] Really, Ottoline!

OTTOLINE.

[Sitting upon the settee.] Ha, ha, ha!

LADY FILSON.

[To BERTRAM, who is slowly getting to his feet.] Go away, Bertie darling.

OTTOLINE.

Mais pourquoi? Bertie knows everything, obviously.

LADY FILSON.

Why shouldnt he, Otto? Your brother is as interested as we are

OTTOLINE.

But of course! Naturellement! [With a shrug.] C’est une affaire de famille. [To BERTRAM, who is now at the door on the left, his hand on the door-handle.] Come back, Bertie. [Repeating her wry smile.] I shall be glad to receive your congratulations with mother’s and Dad’s. [To SIR RANDLE and LADY FILSON.] Sit down, Dad; sit down, mother. [SIR RANDLE sits in the chair on the left of the settee on the right, LADY FILSON in the low-backed arm-chair, and BERTRAM at the oblong table.] Are you very much surprised, dear people?

SIR RANDLE.

Surprised? Hardly.

LADY FILSON.

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

OTTOLINE.

Ah, but I dont mean surprised at my having made Sir Timothy unhappy; I mean surprised at hearing there is someone else

SIR RANDLE.

My dear child, that surprises us even less.

LADY FILSON.

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

SIR RANDLE.

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

BERTRAM.

Bats, father.

SIR RANDLE.

[To BERTRAM.] Thank you, my boy.

OTTOLINE.

[In a rigid attitude.] Its cowardly of me perhaps, but I almost wish I had told Sir Timothy a little more

LADY FILSON.

Cowardly?

OTTOLINE.

So that he might have taken the edge off the announcement Im going to make and spared me

SIR RANDLE.

The edge?

LADY FILSON.

Spared you? [Staring at OTTOLINE.] Ottoline, what on earth!

OTTOLINE.

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

SIR RANDLE.

[Blandly but uneasily.] My child!

OTTOLINE.

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

LADY FILSON.

H-how?

SIR RANDLE.

Disap-point us?

OTTOLINE.

[Abruptly.] What’s the time, Dad?

SIR RANDLE.

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

OTTOLINE.

He he will be here at half-past. Don’t be angry. I’ve asked him to come to explain his position clearly to you and mother with regard to me. Theres to be nothing underhand rien de secret!

LADY FILSON.

A-asked whom?

OTTOLINE.

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

SIR RANDLE.

Who is coming?

OTTOLINE.

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

LADY FILSON.

[After a pause.] Mackworth?

OTTOLINE.

Philip Mackworth.

LADY FILSON.

[Dully.] Isn’t he the journalist man you you carried on with once, in Paris?

OTTOLINE.

What an expression, mother! Well yes.

SIR RANDLE.

[Simply.] Good God!

OTTOLINE.

He doesn’t write for the papers any longer.

LADY FILSON.

W-what?

OTTOLINE.

A novelist chiefly.

LADY FILSON.

[Faintly.] Oh!

SIR RANDLE.

Successful?

OTTOLINE.

It depends on what you call success.

SIR RANDLE.

I call success what everybody calls success.

BERTRAM.

[Rising, stricken.] There are novelists and novelists, I mean t’say.

OTTOLINE.

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

LADY FILSON.

[Searching for her handkerchief.] Where where have you?

OTTOLINE.

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

LADY FILSON.

Oh, Otto! [Rising and crossing to the settee on the right, whimpering.] Oh, Randle! [To BERTRAM, who comes to her.] Oh, my boy!

SIR RANDLE.

[Gazing blinkingly at the ceiling as LADY FILSON sinks upon the settee.] Incredible! Incredible!

BERTRAM.

[Sitting beside LADY FILSON, dazed.] My dear mother!

OTTOLINE.

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

SIR RANDLE.

[Raising his hands.] Romance!

LADY FILSON.

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

OTTOLINE.

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

SIR RANDLE.

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

LADY FILSON.

[Harshly.] Ha, ha, ha, ha!

OTTOLINE.

[Turning sharply and coming forward.] Sssh! Don’t you sneer, mother! Don’t you sneer, Dad! [Her eyes flashing.] C’est au-dessus de vous de sentir ce qu’il y a d’eleve et de grand! [Fiercely.] Tenez! Qu’il vous plaise où non!

[She is checked by the entrance of UNDERWOOD from the
hall.

UNDERWOOD.

[Addressing the back of LADY FILSON_’s head._] Mr. Philip Mackworth, m’lady.

LADY FILSON.

[Straightening herself.] Not for me. [Firmly.] For Madame de Chaumie.

UNDERWOOD.

I beg pardon, mlady. The gentleman inquired for your ladyship

OTTOLINE.

[To UNDERWOOD.] In the drawing-room [with a queenly air] no, in my own room.

UNDERWOOD.

[To OTTOLINE.] Yes, mad’m.

[UNDERWOOD withdraws.

OTTOLINE.

[Approaching SIR RANDLE and LADY FILSON.] Dad mother?

LADY FILSON.

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

OTTOLINE.

[To SIR RANDLE.] Dad?

SIR RANDLE.

[Rising.] Impossible impossible. [Marching to the fireplace.] I cannot act apart from your dear mother. [His back to the fireplace, virtuously.] I never act apart from your dear mother.

OTTOLINE.

Comme vous voudrez! [Moving to the glazed door and there pausing.] You won’t?

[SIR RANDLE blinks at the ceiling again. LADY FILSON
scribbles audibly with a scratchy pen. OTTOLINE goes
out, closing the door.

BERTRAM.

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

SIR RANDLE.

[Coming to earth.] Eh?

BERTRAM.

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

LADY FILSON.

[Throwing down her pen and rising holding her heart.] Oh!

BERTRAM.

[With energy.] I mean to say!

SIR RANDLE.

[To LADY FILSON, blankly.] Winnie?

LADY FILSON.

R-Randle?

SIR RANDLE.

[Biting his nails.] He’s right. [BERTRAM hastens to the glazed door.] Dear Bertram is right.

BERTRAM.

[Opening the door.] You’ll see him?

LADY FILSON.

Y-yes.

SIR RANDLE.

Yes. [BERTRAM disappears. SIR RANDLE paces the room at the back, waving his arms.] Oh! Oh!

LADY FILSON.

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

SIR RANDLE.

A calamity! An unmerited calamity!

LADY FILSON.

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

SIR RANDLE.

Stark mad! A calamity.

LADY FILSON.

You remember the man?

SIR RANDLE.

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

LADY FILSON.

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

SIR RANDLE.

[Suddenly, groaning.] Oh!

LADY FILSON.

[Over her shoulder.] What is it? I cant bear much more

SIR RANDLE.

He isn’t even in Who’s Who, Winnie!

[BERTRAM returns, out of breath.

BERTRAM.

I caught her on the stairs. [Closing the door.] She’ll bring him down.

LADY FILSON.

[Weakly.] I won’t be civil to him. I refuse to be civil to him.

SIR RANDLE.

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

[There is a short silence. BERTRAM slowly advances.

BERTRAM.

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

LADY FILSON.

[Rocking herself to and fro.] Oh! Oh!

SIR RANDLE.

A beggarly author!

BERTRAM.

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

SIR RANDLE.

A duffer a duffer whose trash doesn’t sell!

LADY FILSON.

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

SIR RANDLE.

[Rising and pacing up and down between the glazed door and the settee on the right.] I shall have difficulty [shaking his uplifted fist] I shall have difficulty in restraining myself from denouncing Mr. Mackworth in her presence!

BERTRAM.

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

LADY FILSON.

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

SIR RANDLE.

[Bitterly, with wild gestures.] “The interesting engagement is announced of Mr. Mr.

BERTRAM.

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

SIR RANDLE.

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

LADY FILSON.

“Mrs. Philip Mackworth”! Ha, ha, ha! Mrs. Philip Nobody!

BERTRAM.

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

LADY FILSON.

[Falling upon his neck.] Oh, my dear boy!

SIR RANDLE.

[Getting away from the door.] They’re coming!

BERTRAM.

[Quickly.] Im near you if you want me, I mean tsay

[He goes out at the door on the left. LADY FILSON hastily resumes her seat at the writing-table, and SIR RANDLE, pulling himself together, crosses to the fireplace. The glazed door opens and OTTOLINE appears with PHILIP.

OTTOLINE.

[Quietly.] Mr. Mackworth, mother Dad

PHILIP.

[Advancing to LADY FILSON cordially.] How do you do, Lady Filson?

LADY FILSON.

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

PHILIP.

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

SIR RANDLE.

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

PHILIP.

[Breaking the ice.] We we meet after many years

SIR RANDLE.

Many.

LADY FILSON.

[Still examining PHILIP.] M-many.

PHILIP.

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

LADY FILSON.

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

SIR RANDLE.

Scarcely.

PHILIP.

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

LADY FILSON.

[Gulping.] Pleasure! [Unable to repress herself.] Unmixed! Ho, ho, ho, ho!

SIR RANDLE.

[Restraining her.] Winifred!

OTTOLINE.

[Coming to LADY FILSON and touching her gently in a low voice.] Mother!

PHILIP.

[Smiling at OTTOLINE apologetically.] It’s my fault; I provoked that. [Walking away to the right.] I expressed myself rather clumsily, I’m afraid.

SIR RANDLE.

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

OTTOLINE.

[Moving to the fireplace.] Yes, Dad.

PHILIP.

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

[SIR RANDLE motions PHILIP to the settee on the right. PHILIP sits. Then OTTOLINE sits on the settee before the fireplace, and SIR RANDLE in the arm-chair by PHILIP. LADY FILSON turns in her chair to listen.

SIR RANDLE.

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

PHILIP.

[Dryly.] Such a marriage as her marriage to Monsieur de Chaumie, for example.

SIR RANDLE.

[Closing his eyes.] De mortuis, Mr. Mackworth! I must decline

PHILIP.

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

SIR RANDLE.

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

PHILIP.

[Nodding.] They are distinctly disagreeable.

SIR RANDLE.

[Conscientiously.] They are I won’t exaggerate I mustn’t exaggerate they are not far removed from dismay.

LADY FILSON.

Utter dismay.

SIR RANDLE.

[Shifting his chair to PHILIP.] I learn I learn from Ottoline that you have forsaken the field of journalism, Mr. Mackworth, and now devote yourself exclusively to creative work? [Another nod from PHILIP.] But you have not to use my daughters phrase up to the present er

PHILIP.

[Nursing his leg.] Please go on.

SIR RANDLE.

You have not been eminently successful?

PHILIP.

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

SIR RANDLE.

Forgive me any private resources?

PHILIP.

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

LADY FILSON.

[Under her breath.] Ho!

SIR RANDLE.

[To her.] My dear! [To PHILIP.] On the other hand, Mr. Mackworth, as you are probably aware, my daughter is no, I won’t say a rich woman I will say comfortably provided for; not by the late Comte de Chaumie, but by myself. [Closing his eyes.] I have never been a niggardly parent, Mr. Mackworth.

OTTOLINE.

[Softly, without turning.] Indeed, no, Dad!

PHILIP.

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

LADY FILSON.

[As before.] Ha!

SIR RANDLE.

[Leaning back in his chair.] There then, my dear Mr. Mackworth, is the state of the case. Ottoline is beyond our control

LADY FILSON.

Unhappily.

SIR RANDLE.

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

LADY FILSON.

There could only be one construction put upon it!

OTTOLINE.

[Rising.] Mother!

PHILIP.

[To SIR RANDLE, calmly.] Oh, but ah, Ottoline hasn’t told you!

OTTOLINE.

[To PHILIP.] No, I hadnt time, Philip

PHILIP.

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

OTTOLINE.

No, mother.

LADY FILSON.

When, pray?

PHILIP.

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

OTTOLINE.

[To SIR RANDLE and LADY FILSON.] Until he has obtained public recognition; [coming forward] until, in fact, even the member’s of one’s own family, Dad, can’t impute unworthy motives.

SIR RANDLE.

[To PHILIP, incredulously rising.] Until you have obtained public recognition, Mr. Mackworth?

PHILIP.

[Smiling.] Well, it may sound extravagant

LADY FILSON.

Grotesque!

SIR RANDLE.

[Walking about on the extreme right.] Amazing!

OTTOLINE.

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

PHILIP.

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

LADY FILSON.

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

OTTOLINE.

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

LADY FILSON.

[Rising and crossing to the round table.] Ottoline!

SIR RANDLE.

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

PHILIP.

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

LADY FILSON.

Ten years!

PHILIP.

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

SIR RANDLE.

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

LADY FILSON.

[Sitting in the chair by the round table.] Preposterous!

OTTOLINE.

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

SIR RANDLE.

[To PHILIP.] And should that prove no more successful with the “wide public” than those which have preceded it?

PHILIP.

Then I then I fling another at ’em.

SIR RANDLE.

Which would occupy you?

PHILIP.

Twelve months.

LADY FILSON.

And if that fails!

PHILIP.

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

SIR RANDLE.

If that fails, another twelve-months’ labour!

LADY FILSON.

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

SIR RANDLE.

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

LADY FILSON.

Is it fair to Ottoline?

OTTOLINE.

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

SIR RANDLE.

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

OTTOLINE.

[Rising impatiently.] My dear Dad my dear mother I propose that we postpone this discussion until Mr. Mackworth’s new book has failed to attract the public, [crossing to SIR RANDLE] and that in the meantime he sha’n’t be scowled at when he presents himself in Ennismore Gardens. [Seating herself beside SIR RANDLE and slipping her arm through his.] Dad!

LADY FILSON.

[To PHILIP.] Mr. Mackworth!

PHILIP.

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

LADY FILSON.

There’s nothing to be said for it. Oh!

SIR RANDLE.

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

PHILIP.

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

[There is a short silence. SIR RANDLE and LADY
FILSON look at each other in surprise and OTTOLINE
stares at PHILIP open-mouthed.

OTTOLINE.

Philip!

PHILIP.

[To SIR RANDLE.] Sir Randle?

SIR RANDLE.

[To LADY FILSON.] Winnie?

LADY FILSON.

[In a softer tone.] It certainly seems to me that Mr. Mackworths undertaking as far as it goes

OTTOLINE.

[With a queer laugh.] Ha, ha, ha! As far as it goes, mother! [Rising, thoughtfully.] Doesn’t it go a little too far? [Contracting her brows.] It disposes of me as if I were of no more account than a sawdust doll! [To PHILIP.] Ah, traitor! [In a low voice.] Vos promesses a une femme sont sans valeur!

PHILIP.

[Taking her hands reassuringly.] No, no!

OTTOLINE.

[Withdrawing her hands.] Zut! [Moving slowly towards the glazed door.] You have acquitted yourself bravely, mon cher Monsieur Philippe! [Shrugging her shoulders.] Say good-bye and let me turn you out in disgrace.

PHILIP.

[Deprecatingly.] Ha, ha, ha! [Going to LADY FILSON.] Good-bye, Lady Filson. [She rises and shakes hands with him.] Have I bought my right of entree? I may ring your bell at discreet intervals till the end of the season?

LADY FILSON.

[Stiffly.] Ottoline is her own mistress, Mr. Mackworth; [more amiably] but apart from her, you will receive a card from me music Tuesday, July the eighth.

[He bows and she crosses to the fireplace. Then he
shakes hands with SIR RANDLE, who has risen and is
standing in the middle of the room.

PHILIP.

[To SIR RANDLE.] Good-bye.

SIR RANDLE.

[Detaining PHILIP, searchingly.] Er pardon me this new novel of yours, on which you place so much reliance pray dont think me curious

OTTOLINE.

[Suddenly.] Ha! [Coming to the back of the settee on the right, her eyes gleaming scornfully at SIR RANDLE.] Tell my father, Philip tell him

PHILIP.

[Shaking his head at her and frowning.] Otto

OTTOLINE.

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

SIR RANDLE.

Any confidence you may repose in me, Mr. Mackworth

OTTOLINE.

[Prompting PHILIP.] Its called allons! racontez donc!

PHILIP.

[After a further look of protest at OTTOLINE to SIR RANDLE, hesitatingly.] It’s called “The Big Drum,” Sir Randle.

SIR RANDLE.

[Elevating his eyebrows.] “The Big Drum”? [With an innocent air.] Military?

PHILIP.

No; social.

SIR RANDLE.

Social?

PHILIP.

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

SIR RANDLE.

Ah, yes; lamentable!

PHILIP.

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

SIR RANDLE.

[Closing his eyes.] A terrible picture!

LADY FILSON.

[Closing her eyes.] Terrible.

PHILIP.

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

SIR RANDLE.

Er h’m [expansively] an excellent theme, Mr. Mackworth; a most promising theme! [To LADY FILSON.] Eh, Winifred?

LADY FILSON.

[Politely.] Excellent; quite, quite excellent!

PHILIP.

[Bowing to LADY FILSON and going to OTTOLINE.] Thank you.

OTTOLINE.

[To PHILIP, glowingly.] Splendid! [Laying her hand upon his arm.] You have purged your disgrace. [Softly.] You may come and see me to-morrow.

PHILIP.

[To OTTOLINE.] Ha, ha!

SIR RANDLE.

[In response to a final bow from PHILIP.] Good-bye.

LADY FILSON.

Good-bye.

[OTTOLINE opens the glazed door and PHILIP follows
her into the hall. Immediately the door is shut, LADY
FILSON hurries to SIR RANDLE.

SIR RANDLE.

[In high spirits.] Winnie!

LADY FILSON.

That will never be a popular success, Randle!

SIR RANDLE.

Never. An offensive book!

LADY FILSON.

Ho, ho, ho, ho!

SIR RANDLE.

A grossly offensive book!

LADY FILSON.

[Anxiously.] He he’ll keep his word?

SIR RANDLE.

To join us in persuading her to drop him

LADY FILSON.

If it fails?

SIR RANDLE.

[With conviction.] Yes. [Walking about.] Yes. We must be just. We owe it to ourselves to be just to Mr. Mackworth. He is not altogether devoid of gentlemanlike scruples.

LADY FILSON.

[Breathlessly.] And and she?

SIR RANDLE.

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

LADY FILSON.

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

SIR RANDLE.

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

LADY FILSON.

[Rallying.] It was masterly [kissing him] masterly

SIR RANDLE.

[Proudly.] Ha!

[She sits at the writing-table again and takes up her
pen as SIR RANDLE stalks to the door on the left.

LADY FILSON.

Masterly!

SIR RANDLE.

[Opening the door.] Bertram Bertram, my boy Bertie!

[He disappears. LADY FILSON scribbles violently.