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

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

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

On the other side of the room, facing the bedroom door, there is a second settee, and behind the settee is an oblong table littered with books and magazines. At a little distance from this table stands an arm-chair, and against the wall at the back, on the left of the big doors, is a chair of a lighter sort. Also against the back wall, but on the left of the door opening from the vestibule, is a table with a telephone-instrument upon it, and running along the left-hand wall is a dwarf bookcase, unglazed, packed with books which look as if they would be none the worse for being dusted and put in order.

In the vestibule, against the wall on the right, there is a small table on which are Philip’s hats, caps, and gloves; and an overcoat and a man’s cape are hanging on some pegs.

It is late on a November afternoon. Curtains are drawn across the dining-room windows, and the room is lighted rather dimly by an electric lamp standing upon a sideboard. A warm glow proceeds from the nearer right-hand corner as from a fire. The study is lighted by a couple of standard lamps and a library-lamp on the writing-table, and the vestibule by a lamp suspended from the ceiling.

The big doors are open.

[PHILIP, a pipe in his mouth and wearing an old velvet jacket, is lying upon the settee on the right, reading a book by the light of the lamp on the writing-table. In the dining-room, JOHN and a waiter the latter in his shirt-sleeves are at the round table, unfolding a white table-cloth.

JOHN.

[A cheery little man in seedy clothes to the waiter, softly.] Careful! Don’t crease it.

PHILIP.

[Raising his eyes from his book.] What’s the time, John?

JOHN.

Quarter-to-six, sir.

PHILIP.

Have my things come from the tailor’s yet?

JOHN.

[Laying the cloth with the aid of the waiter.] Yes, sir; while you were dozing. [Ecstatically.] They’re lovely, sir. [A bell rings in the vestibule.] Expect that’s the cook, sir. [He bustles into the vestibule from the dining-room. There is a short pause and then he reappears, entering the study at the door opening from the vestibule, followed by ROOPE.] It’s Mr. Roope, sir!

PHILIP.

No! [Throwing his book aside and jumping up.] Why, Robbie!

ROOPE.

[As they shake hands vigorously.] My dear fellow!

PHILIP.

Return of the wanderer! When did you get back?

ROOPE.

Last night.

PHILIP.

Take your coat off, you old ruffian. [Putting his pipe down.] I am glad.

ROOPE.

[To JOHN, who relieves him of his hat, overcoat, and neckerchief.] How are you, John?

JOHN.

Splendid, Mr. Roope. [Beaming.] Our new novel is sech a success, sir.

PHILIP.

Ha, ha, ha, ha!

ROOPE.

[To JOHN.] So Mr. Mackworth wrote and told me. [Giving his gloves to JOHN.] Congratulate you, John.

JOHN.

[Depositing the hat, coat, etc., upon the settee on the left.] Thank you, sir.

ROOPE.

[Crossing to the fireplace, rubbing his hands, as JOHN retires to the dining-room.] Oh, my dear Phil, this dreadful climate after the sunshine of the Lago Maggiore!

PHILIP.

[Walking about and spouting, in high spirits.] “Italia! O Italia! thou who hast the fatal gift of beauty!”

ROOPE.

Sir Loftus and Lady Glazebrook were moving on to Rome, or I really believe I could have endured another month at their villa, bores as they are, dear kind souls! [Looking towards the dining-room, where JOHN and the waiter are now placing a handsome centre-piece of flowers upon the round table.] Hallo! A dinner-party, Phil?

PHILIP.

Dinner-party? A banquet!

ROOPE.

To celebrate the success of the book?

PHILIP.

That and something more. This festival, sir, of the preparations for which you are a privileged spectator [shouting to JOHN] shut those doors, John

JOHN.

Yessir.

PHILIP.

[Sitting in the chair on the left of the smoking-table as JOHN closes the big doors.] This festival, my dear Robbie [glancing over his shoulder to assure himself that the doors are closed] this festival also celebrates my formal engagement to Madame de Chaumie.

ROOPE.

[Triumphantly.] Aha!

PHILIP.

[Taking a cigarette from the box at his side.] Ottoline and I are to be married soon after Christmas. The civilized world is to be startled by the announcement on Monday.

ROOPE.

[Advancing.] My dear chap, I’ve never heard anything that has given me greater pleasure. [PHILIP offers ROOPE the cigarette-box.] No, I won’t smoke. [Seating himself upon the settee on the right.] When was it settled?

PHILIP.

[Lighting his cigarette.] The day before yesterday. I got Titterton to write me a letter Titterton, my publisher certifying to the enormous sales of the book, and sent it on to Sir Randle Filson. Nothing like documentary evidence, Robbie. [Leaning back in his chair with outstretched legs and exhaling a wreath of tobacco-smoke.] Twenty-five thousand copies, my boy, up to date, and still going strong.

ROOPE.

Wonderful.

PHILIP.

Phew! The critics treated me generously enough, but it hung fire damnably at first. At one particularly hellish moment I could have sworn it wouldn’t do more than my usual fifteen or eighteen hundred, and I cursed myself for having been such a besotted fool as to pin my faith to it. [Sitting upright.] And then, suddenly, a rush a tremendous rush! Twenty-four thousand went off in less than six weeks. Almost uncanny, eh? [Touching the tobacco-jar.] Oh, lord, sometimes I think I’ve been putting opium into my pipe instead of this innocent baccy, and that I shall wake up to the necessity of counting my pence again and apologizing to John for being in arrear with his wages!

ROOPE.

And Titterton’s letter brought the Filsons round?

PHILIP.

[Nodding.] Brought ’em round; and I must say they’ve accomplished the change of attitude most graciously.

ROOPE.

[Oracularly.] Graciously or grudgingly, they couldnt help themselves, dear excellent friend. As you had pledged yourself in effect to resign the lady if your book was a failure, it follows that they were bound to clasp you to their bosoms if it succeeded. I dont want to detract from the amiability of the Filsons for an instant

PHILIP.

Anyhow, their opposition is at an end, and all is rosy. [Rising and pacing the room.] Master Bertram is a trifle glum and stand-offish perhaps, but Sir Randle! Ha, ha, ha! Sir Randle has taken Literature under his wing, Robbie, from Chaucer to Kipling, in the person of his prospective son-in-law. You’d imagine, to listen to him, that to establish ties of relationship with a literary man has been his chief aim in life.

ROOPE.

[Jerking his head in the direction of the dining-room.] And this is to be a family gathering?

PHILIP.

The first in the altered circumstances. I proposed a feast at a smart restaurant, but Sir Randle preferred the atmosphere which has conduced, as he puts it, to the creation of so many of my brilliant compositions. [Behind the smoking-table, dropping the end of his cigarette into the ash-tray gaily.] Robbie, I’ve had a magnificent suit of joy-rags made for the occasion!

ROOPE.

[Earnestly.] Good! I rejoice to hear it, dear excellent friend, and I hope it portends a wholesale order to your tailor and your intention to show yourself in society again freely. [With a laugh, PHILIP goes to the fireplace and stands looking into the fire.] Begin leaving your cards at once. No more sulking in your tent! [Rising and crossing to the other side of the room.] You have arrived, my dear chap; I read your name in two papers in my cabin yesterday. [Marching up and down.] Your foot is on the ladder; you bid fair to become a celebrity, if you are not one already; and your approaching marriage sheds additional lustre on you. I envy you, Phil; I do, positively.

PHILIP.

[Facing ROOPE.] Oh, of course, I shall be seen about with Ottoline during our engagement. Afterwards

ROOPE.

[Halting.] Afterwards?

PHILIP.

Everything will depend on my wife [relishing the word] my wife. Ottoline has rather lost her taste for Society with a capital S, remember.

ROOPE.

[Testily.] That was her mood last June, when she was hypped and discontented. With a husband she can be proud of, surely!

PHILIP.

[Coming forward.] As a matter of fact, Robbie, I’m inclined to agree with you; I’ve been staring into my fire, or out of my windows here, a jolly sight too much. [Expanding his chest.] It’ll be refreshing to me to rub shoulders with people again for a bit [smiling] even to find myself the object of a little interest and curiosity.

ROOPE.

[Delighted.] Dear excellent friend!

PHILIP.

Ha, ha! You see, I’m not without my share of petty vanity. I’m consistent, though. Didn’t I tell you in South Audley Street that I was as eager for fame as any man living, if only I could win it in my own way?

ROOPE.

You did.

PHILIP.

[Exultingly.] Well, I have won it in my own way, haven’t I! [Hitting the palm of his hand with his fist.] I’ve done what I determined to do, Robbie; what I knew I should do, sooner or later! I’ve got there got there! by simple, honest means! Isn’t it glorious?

ROOPE.

[Cautiously.] I admit

PHILIP.

[Breaking in.] Oh, I don’t pretend that there haven’t been moments in my years of stress and struggle when I’ve been tempted to join the gaudy, cackling fowl whose feathers I flatter myself I’ve plucked pretty thoroughly in my book! But I’ve resisted the devil by prayers and fasting; and, by George, sir, I wouldn’t swap my modest victory for the vogue of the biggest boomster in England! [Boisterously.] Ha, ha, ha! Whoop! [Seizing ROOPE and shaking him.] Dare to preach your gospel to me now, you arch-apostle of quackery and self-advertisement!

ROOPE.

[Peevishly, releasing himself.] Upon my word, Phil!

[The bell rings again.

PHILIP.

The cook! [To ROOPE, seeing that he is putting on his muffler.] Don’t go.

ROOPE.

I must. [Taking up his overcoat.] I merely ran along to shake hands with you, and I’m sorry I took the trouble. [PHILIP helps him into his overcoat laughingly.] Thanks.

PHILIP.

[Suddenly.] Robbie!

ROOPE.

[Struggling with an obstinate sleeve.] Hey?

PHILIP.

It’s just struck me. Where are you dining to-night?

ROOPE.

At the Garrick, with Hughie Champion. [Picking up his hat and gloves.] He’s getting horribly deaf and tedious; but I had nothing better.

PHILIP.

Bother Colonel Champion! I wish you could have dined with me.

ROOPE.

[His hat on his head, drawing on his gloves.] Dear excellent friend! I should be out of place.

PHILIP.

Rubbish! Your presence would be peculiarly appropriate, my dear Robbie. Wasn’t it you who brought Ottoline and me together, God bless yer! [Observing that ROOPE is weakening.] There’s heaps of room for an extra chair. Everybody ’ud be delighted.

ROOPE.

[Meditatively.] I could telephone to Hughie excusing myself. He didn’t ask me till this afternoon. [With an injured air.] I resent a short notice.

PHILIP.

[His eyes twinkling.] Quite right. Mines short too

ROOPE.

That’s different.

PHILIP.

Entirely. You’ll come?

ROOPE.

If youre certain the Filsons and Madame de Chaumie

PHILIP.

Certain. [Following ROOPE to the door admitting to the vestibule.] Eight o’clock.

ROOPE.

[Opening the door.] Charming.

PHILIP.

Won’t you let John fetch you a taxi?

ROOPE.

[Shaking hands with PHILIP.] No, I’ll walk into Holborn. [In the doorway.] Oh, by-the-by, I’ve a message for you, Phil.

PHILIP.

From whom?

ROOPE.

Barradell, of all people in the world.

PHILIP.

[Surprised.] Sir Timothy?

ROOPE.

He’s home. I crossed with him yesterday, and we travelled in the same carriage from Dover.

PHILIP.

What’s the message?

ROOPE.

He saw your book in my bag, and began talking about you. He said he hadn’t met you for years, but that I was to give you his warm regards.

PHILIP.

Indeed?

ROOPE.

[Astutely.] My impression is that he’s heard rumours concerning you and Madame de Chaumie while he’s been away, and that he’s anxious to show he has no ill-will. I suppose your calling so often in Ennismore Gardens has been remarked.

PHILIP.

Extremely civil of him, if that’s the case. [Loftily.] Decent sort of fellow, I recollect.

ROOPE.

[Going into the vestibule.] Very; very.

PHILIP.

Poor chap!

ROOPE.

[Opening the outer door.] Eight o’clock, dear excellent friend.

PHILIP.

[At his elbow.] Sharp.

ROOPE.

[Disappearing.] Au revoir!

PHILIP.

Au revoir! [Calling after ROOPE.] Mind that corner! [Closing the outer door with a bang and shouting.] John! [Coming back into the study.] John! [Closing the vestibule door.] John! [Going to the big doors and opening the one on the left a little way.] John!

[OTTOLINE, richly dressed in furs, steps through the
opening and confronts him. Her cheeks are flushed and
her manner has lost some of its repose.

OTTOLINE.

[Shutting the door behind her as she enters playfully.] Qu’est-ce que vous desirez John?

PHILIP.

[Catching her in his arms.] My dear girl!

OTTOLINE.

Ha, ha! I’m not going to stop a minute. [Rapidly.] I’ve been to tea with Kitty Millington; and as I was getting into my car, I suddenly thought! [He kisses her.] I waited in there to avoid Robbie Roope.

PHILIP.

Robbie came back yesterday. I hope I haven’t done wrong; I’ve asked him to dine here to-night.

OTTOLINE.

Wrong! Dear old Robbie! But I didn’t want him just now. [Loosening her wrap and hunting for a pocket in it.] Ive brought you a little gift, Phil en souvenir de cette soiree

PHILIP.

[Reprovingly.] Oh!

OTTOLINE.

I got it at Cartier’s this afternoon. I meant to slip it into your serviette to-night quietly, but it’s burning a hole in my pocket. [She produces a small jewel-case and presents it to him.] Will you wear that in your tie sometimes?

PHILIP.

[Opening the case and gazing at its contents.] Phiou! [She leaves him, walking away to the fireplace.] What a gorgeous pearl! [He follows her and they stand side by side, he holding the case at arm’s-length admiringly, his other arm round her waist.] You shouldn’t, Otto. You’re incorrigible.

OTTOLINE.

[Leaning her head against his shoulder softly.] Phil

PHILIP.

[Still gazing at the scarf-pin.] To-morrow I’ll buy the most beautiful silk scarf ever weaved.

OTTOLINE.

Phil, I’ve a feeling that it’s from to-night, when I sit at your table how sweet your flowers are; I couldn’t help noticing them! I’ve a feeling that it’s from to-night that we really belong to each other.

PHILIP.

[Pressing her closer to him.] Ah!

OTTOLINE.

[With a shiver, closing her eyes.] What has gone before has been hateful hateful!

PHILIP.

[Looking down upon her fondly.] Hateful?

OTTOLINE.

Until until your book commenced to sell, at any rate. Suspense a horrid sensation of uneasiness, mistrust the fear that, through your foolish, hasty promise to mother and Dad, you might, after all, unite with them to cheat me out of my happiness! That’s what it has been to me, Philip.

PHILIP.

[Rallying her, but a little guiltily.] Ha, ha, ha! You goose! I knew exactly how events would shape, Otto; hadn’t a doubt on the subject. [Shutting the jewel-case with a snap and a flourish.] I knew

OTTOLINE.

[Releasing herself.] Ah, yes, I dare say I’ve been dreadfully stupid. [Shaking herself, as if to rid herself of unpleasant memories, and again leaving him.] Well! Sans adieu! [Fastening her wrap.] Get your hat and take me downstairs.

PHILIP.

Wait a moment! [Chuckling.] Ho, ho! I’m not to be outdone altogether. [Pocketing her gift, he goes to the cabinet on the right and unlocks it. She watches him from the middle of the room. Presently he comes to her, carrying a little ring-case.] Take off your glove [pointing to her left hand] that one. [She removes her glove tremulously. He takes a ring from the case, tosses the case on to the writing-table, and slips the ring on her third finger.] By George, I’m in luck; blessed if it doesn’t fit!

[She surveys the ring in silence for a while; then she
puts her arms round his neck and hides her face on his
breast.

OTTOLINE.

[Almost inaudibly.] Oh, Phil!

PHILIP.

[Tenderly.] And so this is the end of the journey, Otto!

OTTOLINE.

[In a whisper.] The end?

PHILIP.

The dreary journey in opposite directions you and I set out upon nearly eleven years ago in Paris.

OTTOLINE.

[Quivering.] Ah!

PHILIP.

My dear, what does it matter as long as our roads meet at last, and meet where there are clear pools to bathe our vagabond feet and sunshine to heal our sore bodies! [She raises her head and rummages for her handkerchief.] Otto!

OTTOLINE.

Yes?

PHILIP.

In April eh?

OTTOLINE.

[Drying her eyes.] April?

PHILIP.

You haven’t forgotten the compact we entered into at Robbie Roope’s?

OTTOLINE.

[Brightening.] Ah, no!

PHILIP.

In April we walk under the chestnut-trees once more in the Champs-Elysees!

OTTOLINE.

[Smiling through her tears.] And the Allee de Longchamp!

PHILIP.

As husband and wife we shall be an old married couple by then!

OTTOLINE.

[Pulling on her glove.] And drink milk at the d’Armenonville!

PHILIP.

And the Pre-Catelan!

OTTOLINE.

And we’ll make pilgrimages, Phil!

PHILIP.

Yes, well gaze up at the windows of my gloomy lodgings in the Rue Soufflot what was the number?

OTTOLINE.

[Contracting her brows.] Quarante-trois bis.

PHILIP.

[Banteringly.] Where you honoured me with a visit, madame, with your maid Nanette

OTTOLINE.

[Warding off the recollection with a gesture.] Oh, don’t!

PHILIP.

Ha, ha, ha! A shame of me!

OTTOLINE.

[Turning from him.] Do get your hat and coat.

PHILIP.

[Going into the vestibule.] Where’s your car?

OTTOLINE.

[Moving towards the vestibule.] In South Square.

PHILIP.

[Returning to her, a cape over his shoulders, a soft hat on his head.] Eight o’clock!

OTTOLINE.

Eight o’clock.

[He takes her hands and they stand looking into each
other’s eyes.

PHILIP.

[After a pause.] Fancy!

OTTOLINE.

[Faintly.] Fancy! [He is drawing her to him slowly when, uttering a low cry, she embraces him wildly and passionately.] Oh! [Clinging to him.] Oh, Phil! Oh oh oh!

PHILIP.

[Responding to her embrace.] Otto Otto!

OTTOLINE.

[Breaking from him.] Oh!

[She hurries to the outer door. He follows her quickly, closing the vestibule door after him. Then the outer door is heard to shut, and the curtain falls. After a short interval, the curtain rises again, showing all the doors closed and the study in darkness save for the light of the fire. The bell rings, and again there is an interval; and then the vestibule door is opened by JOHN attired for waiting at table and BERTRAM brushes past him and enters. BERTRAM is in evening dress.

BERTRAM.

[As he enters, brusquely.] Yes, I know Im a little too soon. I want to speak to Mr. Mackworth before the others come, I mean tsay

[JOHN switches on the light of a lamp by the vestibule
door. It is now seen that BERTRAM is greatly flustered
and excited.

JOHN.

[Taking BERTRAM’s hat, overcoat, etc.] I’ll tell Mr. Mackworth, sir. He’s dressin’.

[JOHN, eyeing BERTRAM wonderingly, goes to the door
of the bedroom. There, having switched on the light of
another lamp, he knocks.

PHILIP.

[From the bedroom.] Yes?

JOHN.

[Opening the door a few inches.] Mr. Filson, sir.

PHILIP.

[Calling out.] Hallo, Bertram!

JOHN.

Mr. Filson wants to speak to you, sir.

PHILIP.

I’ll be with him in ten seconds. Leave the door open.

JOHN.

Yessir.

[JOHN withdraws, carrying BERTRAM’s outdoor things
into the vestibule and shutting the vestibule door.

PHILIP.

[Calling to BERTRAM again.] I’m in the throes of tying a bow, old man. Sit down. [BERTRAM, glaring at the bedroom door, remains standing.] O’ho, that’s fine! Ha, ha, ha! I warn you, I’m an overpowering swell to-night. A new suit of clothes, Bertram, devised and executed in less than thirty-six hours! And a fit, sir; every item of it! You’ll be green with envy when you see this coat. I’m ready for you. Handkerchief? [Shouting.] John! Oh, here it is! [Switching off the light in the bedroom and appearing, immaculately dressed, in the doorway.] Behold! [Closing the door and advancing to BERTRAM.] How are you, Bertram? [BERTRAM refuses PHILIP’s hand by putting his own behind his back. PHILIP raises his eyebrows.] Oh? [A pause.] Anything amiss? [Observing BERTRAM’s heated look.] You don’t look well, Filson.

BERTRAM.

[Breathing heavily.] No, Im not well I mean tsay, Im sick with indignation

PHILIP.

What about?

BERTRAM.

Youve attempted to play us all a rascally trick, Mackworth; a low, scurvy, contemptible

PHILIP.

[Frowning.] A trick?

BERTRAM.

Ive just come from Mr. Dunning a man Ive thought it my duty to employ in the interests of my family Sillitoe and Dunning, the private-inquiry people

PHILIP.

Private-inquiry people?

BERTRAM.

Dunning rang me up an hour ago, and I went down to him. The discovery wasnt clinched till this afternoon

PHILIP.

The discovery?

BERTRAM.

[Derisively.] Ho! This precious book of yours “The Big Drum”! A grand success, Mackworth!

PHILIP.

[Perplexed.] I dont

BERTRAM.

“The Big Drum”! Wouldn’t “The Big Fraud” be a more suitable title, I mean t’say?

PHILIP.

Fraud?

BERTRAM.

Reached its twenty-fifth thousand, and the demand still continues! You and Mr. whats-his-name Titterton ought to be publicly exposed, Mackworth; and if we were in the least spiteful and vindictive

PHILIP.

[Tightening his lips.] Are you sober, Filson?

BERTRAM.

Now, don’t you be insolent, because it won’t answer. [PHILIP winces, but restrains himself.] The question is, what are we to do to-night for Ottolines sake, I mean tsay. We must spare her as much shock and distress as possible. I assume youve sufficient decency left to agree with me there. My father and mother too theyre quite ignorant of the steps Ive been taking

PHILIP.

[Controlling himself with difficulty.] My good fellow, will you condescend to explain?

BERTRAM.

[Walking away.] Oh, it’s no use, Mackworth this air of innocence! [Puffing himself out and strutting to and fro on the left.] Its simply wasted effort, I mean tsay. In five minutes I can have Dunning here with the whole disreputable story. Hes close by bottom of Chancery Lane. Hell be at his office till half-past-eleven

PHILIP.

[Between his teeth thrusting his hands into his trouser-pockets.] Very accommodating of him!

BERTRAM.

I tried to get on to my father from Dunning’s to ask his advice, I mean t’say but he’d dressed early and gone to one of his clubs, and they couldn’t tell me which one. [Halting and looking at his watch.] My suggestion is that you and I should struggle through this farce of a dinner as best we can as if nothing had happened. I mean t’say and that I should reserve the disclosure of your caddish conduct till to-morrow. You assent to that course, Mackworth? [Dabbing his forehead with his handkerchief.] Thank heaven, the announcement of the engagement hasn’t appeared!

PHILIP.

[In a calm voice.] Bertram [pointing to the chair on the left of the smoking-table] Bertie, old man [seating himself easily upon the settee on the right] youre your sisters brother and Im not going to lose my temper

BERTRAM.

[Sneeringly.] My dear sir

PHILIP.

[Leaning back and crossing his legs.] One thing I seem to grasp clearly; and that is that, while I’ve been endeavouring to conciliate you, and make a pal of you, you’ve been leaguing yourself with a tame detective with the idea of injuring me in some way with Ottoline and your father and mother. [Folding his arms.] That’s correct, isn’t it?

BERTRAM.

[With a disdainful shrug.] If you think it will benefit you to distort my motives, Mackworth, pray do so. [Returning to the middle of the room.] What Ive done, Ive done, as Ive already stated, from a sheer sense of duty

PHILIP.

[Again pointing to the chair.] Please! Youll look less formidable, old man

BERTRAM.

[Sitting, haughtily.] Knowing what depended on the fate of your book, I felt from the first that you might be unscrupulous enough to induce your publisher to represent it as being a popular success in order to impose on us, I mean t’say though actually it was another of your failures to hit the mark; and when Titterton started blowing the trumpet so loudly, my suspicions increased. [PHILIP slowly unfolds his arms.] As for desiring to injure you with my family at any price, I scorn the charge. I’ve had the delicacy to refrain from even mentioning my suspicions to my father and mother, let alone Ottoline. [Putting his necktie straight and smoothing his hair and his slightly crumpled shirt-front.] Deeply as I regret your connection with my sister, I should have been only too happy, I mean t’say, if my poor opinion of you had been falsified.

PHILIP.

[His hands clenched, but preserving his suavity.] Extremely grateful to you, Bertie. I see! And so, burdened by these suspicions, you carried them to Mr. Mr. Gunning?

BERTRAM.

Dunning. I didnt regard it as a job for a respectable solicitor

PHILIP.

[Politely.] Didn’t you!

BERTRAM.

Not that theres anything against Dunning

PHILIP.

[Uncrossing his legs and sitting upright.] Well, that brings us to the point, doesn’t it?

BERTRAM.

The point?

PHILIP.

The precise, and illuminating, details of the fable your friend at the bottom of Chancery Lane is fooling you with.

BERTRAM.

[In a pitying tone.] Oh, my dear Mackworth! I repeat, it’s no use your adopting this attitude. You dont realize how completely youre bowled over, I mean tsay. Dunnings got incontestable proofs

PHILIP.

[Jumping up, unable to repress himself any longer.] Damn the impudent scoundrel!

[The bell rings.

BERTRAM.

[Listening.] Your bell!

PHILIP.

[Striding to the left and then to the fireplace.] You said he’s still at his office, didn’t you?

BERTRAM.

[Rising.] Yes.

PHILIP.

[Pointing to the telephone, imperatively.] Get him here at once.

BERTRAM.

[Rather taken aback.] At once?

PHILIP.

I’ll deal with this gentleman promptly.

BERTRAM.

[Icily.] Not before Ottoline and my parents, I hope?

PHILIP.

[Seizing the poker and attacking the fire furiously.] Before Ottoline and your parents.

BERTRAM.

A most painful scene for them, I mean tsay

PHILIP.

A painful scene for you and Mr. Dunning.

BERTRAM.

After dinner when theyve gone you and Ill go down to Dunning

PHILIP.

[Flinging the poker into the grate and facing BERTRAM.] Confound you, you don’t suppose I’m going to act on your suggestion, and grin through a long meal with this between us! [Pointing to the telephone again.] Ring him up, you treacherous little whelp quick! [Advancing.] If you won’t!

BERTRAM.

[Bristling.] Oh, very good! [Pausing on his way to the telephone and addressing PHILIP with an evil expression.] You were always a bully and a blusterer, Mackworth; but, take my word for it, if you fancy you can bully Mr. Dunning, and bluster to my family, with any satisfactory results to yourself, you’re vastly mistaken.

PHILIP.

[Gruffly.] I beg your pardon; sorry I exploded.

BERTRAM.

[Scowling.] It’s of no consequence. [At the telephone, his ear to the receiver.] I am absolutely indifferent to your vulgar abuse, I mean t’say.

[JOHN announces ROOPE. Note: ROOPE and the rest of
the guests divest themselves of their overcoats, wraps,
etc., in the vestibule before entering the room.

JOHN.

Mr. Roope.

ROOPE.

[Greeting PHILIP as JOHN withdraws.] Am I the first?

PHILIP.

[Glancing at BERTRAM.] No.

BERTRAM.

[Speaking into the telephone.] Holborn, three eight nine eight.

ROOPE.

[Waving his hand to Bertram.] Ah! How are you, my dear Mr. Filson?

BERTRAM.

[To ROOPE, sulkily.] Howr you? Excuse me

ROOPE.

[To PHILIP.] My dear Phil, these excursions to the east are delightful; they are positively. The sights fill me with amazement. I

PHILIP.

[Cutting him short by leading him to the fireplace.] Robbie

ROOPE.

Hey?

PHILIP.

[Grimly, dropping his voice.] Are you hungry?

ROOPE.

Dear excellent friend, since you put the question so plainly, I don’t mind avowing that I am devilish hungry. Why?

PHILIP.

There may be a slight delay, old chap.

ROOPE.

Delay?

PHILIP.

Yes, the east hasn’t exhausted its marvels yet, by a long chalk.

ROOPE.

[Looking at him curiously.] Nothing the matter, Phil?

BERTRAM.

[Suddenly, into the telephone.] That you, Dunning?

PHILIP.

[To ROOPE.] Robbie

[Turning to the fire, PHILIP talks rapidly and
energetically to ROOPE in undertones.

BERTRAM.

[Into the telephone.] Filson.... Mr. Filson.... I’m speaking from Gray’s Inn.... Gray’s Inn Mr. Mackworth’s chambers 2, Friars Court.... You’re wanted, Dunning.... Now immediately.... Yes, jump into a taxicab and come up, will you?...

ROOPE.

[To PHILIP, aloud, opening his eyes widely.] My dear Phil!

PHILIP.

[With a big laugh.] Ha, ha, ha, ha!

BERTRAM.

[To PHILIP, angrily.] Quiet! I can’t hear. [Into the telephone.] I can’t hear; there’s such a beastly noise going on what?... Dash it, you can get something to eat at any time! I mean to say!... Eh?... [Irritably.] Oh, of course you may have a wash and brush up!... Yes, he is.... You’re coming, then?... Right! Goo’bye.

ROOPE.

[To PHILIP, who has resumed his communication to ROOPE_ incredulously._] Dear excellent friend!

[The door-bell rings again.

PHILIP.

Ah! [Pausing on his way to the vestibule door to BERTRAM.] Mr. Dunning will favour us with his distinguished company?

BERTRAM.

[Behind the table on the left, loweringly.] In a few minutes. He’s washing.

PHILIP.

Washing? Some of his customers’ dirty linen? [As he opens the vestibule door, JOHN admits SIR RANDLE FILSON at the outer door.] Ah, Sir Randle!

SIR RANDLE.

[Heartily.] Well, Philip, my boy! [While JOHN is taking his hat, overcoat, etc.] Are my dear wife and daughter here yet?

PHILIP.

Not yet.

SIR RANDLE.

I looked in at Brooks’s on my way to you. I hadn’t been there for months. [To JOHN.] My muffler in the right-hand pocket. Thank you. [Entering and shaking hands with PHILIP.] Ha! They gave me quite a warm welcome. Very gratifying. [ROOPE advances.] Mr. Roope! [Shaking hands with ROOPE as PHILIP shuts the vestibule door.] An unexpected pleasure!

ROOPE.

[Uneasily.] Er I am rather an interloper, Im afraid, my dear Sir Randle

SIR RANDLE.

[Retaining his hand.] No. [Emphatically.] No. This is one of Philip’s many happy inspirations. If my memory is accurate, it was at your charming flat in South Audley Street that he and my darling child [discovering BERTRAM, who is now by the settee on the left.] Bertie! [Going to him.] I haven’t seen you all day, Bertie dear. [Kissing him on the forehead.] Busy, eh?

BERTRAM.

[Stiffly.] Yes, father.

PHILIP.

[At the chair on the left of the smoking-table, dryly.] Bertram has been telling me how busy he has been, Sir Randle

SIR RANDLE.

[Not perceiving the general air of restraint.] That reminds me [moving, full of importance, to the settee on the right feeling in his breast-pocket] the announcement of the engagement, Philip [seating himself and producing a pocket-book] Lady Filson and I drew it up this morning. [Hunting among some letters and papers.] I believe it is in the conventional form; but we so thoroughly sympathize with you and Ottoline in your dislike for anything that savours of pomp and flourish that we hesitate, without your sanction, to [selecting a paper and handing it to PHILIP] ah! [To ROOPE, who has returned to the fireplace over his shoulder.] I am treating you as one of ourselves, Mr. Roope

ROOPE.

[In a murmur.] Dear excellent friend!

SIR RANDLE.

[To PHILIP.] We propose to insert it only in the three or four principal journals

PHILIP.

[Frowning at the paper.] Sir Randle

SIR RANDLE.

[Blandly.] Eh?

PHILIP.

Haven’t you given me the wrong paper?

SIR RANDLE.

[With a look of alarm, hurriedly putting on his pince-nez and searching in his pocket-book again.] The wrong?

PHILIP.

This has “Universal News Agency” written in the corner of it.

SIR RANDLE.

[Holding out his hand for the paper, faintly.] Oh!

PHILIP.

[Ignoring SIR RANDLE’s hand reading.] “The extraordinary stir, which we venture to prophesy will not soon be eclipsed, made by Mr. Philip Mackworth’s recent novel, ‘The Big Drum,’ lends additional interest to the announcement of his forthcoming marriage to the beautiful Madame de Chaumie ” [The bell rings. He listens to it, and then goes on reading.] “ the beautiful Madame de Chaumie, daughter of the widely and deservedly popular the widely and deservedly popular Sir Randle and Lady Filson

[After reading it to the end silently, he restores the
paper to SIR RANDLE with a smile and a slight bow.

SIR RANDLE.

[Collecting himself.] Er Lady Filson and I thought it might be prudent, Philip, to er to give a lead to the inevitable comments of the press. [Replacing the paper in his pocket-book.] If you object, my dear boy

PHILIP.

[With a motion of the head towards the vestibule door.] That must be Lady Filson and Ottoline.

[He goes to the door and opens it. LADY FILSON and
OTTOLINE are in the vestibule and JOHN is taking
LADY FILSON’s wrap from her.

LADY FILSON.

[Brimming over with good humour.] Ah, Philip! Don’t say we’re late!

PHILIP.

[Lightly.] I won’t.

LADY FILSON.

[Entering and shaking hands with him.] Your staircase is so dark, it takes an age to climb it. [To ROOPE, who comes forward, shaking hands with him.] How nice! Ottoline told me, coming along, that we were to meet you.

ROOPE.

[Bending over her hand.] Dear lady!

LADY FILSON.

[Coming to SIR RANDLE.] There you are, Randle! [Nodding to BERTRAM, who is sitting aloof in the chair on the extreme left.] Bertie darling! [SIR RANDLE rises.] Aren’t these rooms quaint and cosy, Randle?

SIR RANDLE.

[Still somewhat disconcerted.] For a solitary man, ideal. [Solemnly.] If ever I had the misfortune to be left alone in the world

LADY FILSON.

[Sitting on the settee on the right.] Ho, my dear!

[PHILIP has joined OTTOLINE in the vestibule. He now follows her into the room, shutting the vestibule door. She is elegantly dressed in white and, though she has recovered her usual stateliness and composure, is a picture of radiant happiness.

OTTOLINE.

[Giving her hand to ROOPE, who raises it to his lips sweetly.] I am glad you are home, Robbie, and that you are here to-night. [To LADY FILSON and SIR RANDLE.] Mother Dad [espying BERTRAM] oh, and there’s Bertram don’t be scandalized, any of you! [To ROOPE, resting her hands on his shoulders.] Une fois de plus, mon ami, pour vous témoigner ma gratitude!

[She kisses him. LADY FILSON laughs indulgently, and
SIR RANDLE, wagging his head, moves to the fireplace.

ROOPE.

Ha, ha, ha!

OTTOLINE.

Ha, ha, ha! [Going to the fireplace.] Ah, what a lovely fire! [To SIR RANDLE, as ROOPE seats himself in the chair by the smoking-table and prepares to make himself agreeable to LADY FILSON.] Share it with me, Dad, and let me warm my toes before dinner. I’m frozen!

PHILIP.

[Coming to the middle of the room.] My dear Ottoline Lady Filson Sir Randle I fear we shall all have time to warm our toes before dinner. [ROOPE, who is about to address a remark to LADY FILSON, puts his hand to his mouth, and SIR RANDLE and LADY FILSON look at PHILIP inquiringly.] You mustnt blame me wholly for the hitch in my poor entertainment

LADY FILSON.

[Amiably.] The kitchen! I guess your difficulties, Philip

PHILIP.

No, nor my kitchen either

OTTOLINE.

[Turning the chair on the nearer side of the fireplace so that it faces the fire.] The cook wasn’t punctual! [Installing herself in the chair.] Ah, la, la! Ces cuisinieres causent la moitié des ennuis sur cette terre!

PHILIP.

Oh, yes, the cook was punctual. [His manner hardening a little.] The truth is, we are waiting for a Mr. Dunning.

LADY FILSON.

Mr.?

SIR RANDLE.

Mr.?

OTTOLINE.

[From her chair, where she is almost completely hidden from the others comfortably.] Good gracious! Who’s Mr. Dunning, Philip?

[JOHN and the waiter open the big doors. The
dining-table, round which the chairs are now arranged,
is prettily lighted by shaded candles.

PHILIP.

[To JOHN, sharply.] John

JOHN.

Yessir?

PHILIP.

Tell the cook to keep the dinner back for a little while. Do you hear?

JOHN.

[Astonished.] Keep dinner back, sir?

PHILIP.

Yes. And when Mr. Dunning calls [distinctly] Dunning

JOHN.

Yessir.

PHILIP.

I’ll see him. Show him in.

JOHN.

Yessir.

PHILIP.

You may serve dinner as soon as he’s gone. I’ll ring.

[JOHN and the waiter withdraw into the kitchen, whereupon PHILIP, after watching their departure, deliberately closes the big doors. ROOPE, who has been picking at his nails nervously, rises and steals away to the left, and SIR RANDLE, advancing a step or two, exchanges questioning glances with LADY FILSON.

OTTOLINE.

[Laughingly.] What a terrible shock! I was frightened that Philip had sprung a strange guest upon us. [As PHILIP is shutting the doors.] Vous étés bien mysterieux, Phil? Why are we to starve until this Mr. Dunning has come and gone?

PHILIP.

Because if I tried to eat without having first disposed of the reptile, Otto, I should choke.

LADY FILSON.

[Bewildered.] Reptile?

OTTOLINE.

Philip!

PHILIP.

[At the chair beside the smoking-table to LADY FILSON.] I apologize very humbly for making you and Sir Randle, and dear Ottoline, parties to such unpleasant proceedings, Lady Filson; but the necessity is forced upon me. [Coming forward.] Mr. Dunning is one of those crawling creatures who conduct what are known as confidential inquiries. In other words, hes a private detective an odd sort of person to present to you!

LADY FILSON.

[Under her breath.] Great heavens!

PHILIP.

And he has lightened your son’s purse, presumably, and crammed his willing ears with some ridiculous, fantastic tale concerning my book “The Big Drum.” Mr. Dunning professes to have discovered that I have conspired with a wicked publisher to deceive you all; that the book’s another of my miss-hits, and that I’m a designing rogue and liar. [To BERTRAM.] Come on, Bertram; don’t sit there as if you were a stuffed figure! Speak out, and tell your father and mother what you’ve been up to!

LADY FILSON.

[Open-mouthed.] Bertie!

SIR RANDLE.

[Moving towards BERTRAM, mildly.] Bertram, my boy?

BERTRAM.

[Curling his lip to PHILIP.] Oh, you seem to be getting on exceedingly well without my assistance, Mackworth. I’m content to hold my tongue till Dunning arrives, I mean t’say.

PHILIP.

[Approaching LADY FILSON.] You see, Lady Filson, Master Bertram is endowed with an exceptionally active brain; and when I gave those assurances to you and Sir Randle last June, it occurred to him that, in the event of my book failing to attract the market, there was a danger of my palming it off, with the kind aid of my publisher, as the out-and-out triumph I’d bragged of in advance; and the loud blasts of Titterton’s trumpet strengthened Master Bertie’s apprehensions. [OTTOLINE, unobserved, rises unsteadily and, with her eyes fixed fiercely upon BERTRAM, crosses the room at the back.] So what does he do, bless him for his devotion to his belongings! To safeguard his parents from being jockeyed, and as a brotherly precaution, he enlists the services, on the sly, of the obliging Mr. Dunning. We shall shortly have an opportunity of judging what that individual’s game is. [With a shrug.] He may have stumbled legitimately into a mare’s nest; but I doubt it. These ruffians’ll stick at nothing to keep an ingenuous client on the hook [He is interrupted by feeling OTTOLINE’s hand upon his arm. He lays his hand on hers gently.] Otto dear

OTTOLINE.

[Clutching him tightly and articulating with an effort.] It it’s infamous shameful! My my brother! It’s infamous!

PHILIP.

Oh, itll be all over in ten minutes. And then Bertie and I will shake hands wont we, Bertie? and forget the wretched incident

OTTOLINE.

[Confronting BERTRAM, trembling with passion.] How dare you! How dare you meddle with my affairs mine and Mr. Mackworth’s! How dare you!

BERTRAM.

[Straightening himself.] Look heah, Ottoline!

OTTOLINE.

Stand up when I speak to you!

[BERTRAM gets to his feet in a hurry.

LADY FILSON.

[Appealingly.] Otto!

OTTOLINE.

[To BERTRAM.] All your life youve been paltry, odious, detestable

BERTRAM.

Look heah!

OTTOLINE.

But this! My God! For you for any of us to impugn the honesty of a man whose shadow we’re not fit to walk in!

SIR RANDLE.

[To LADY FILSON_ pained._] Winifred!

OTTOLINE.

[To BERTRAM.] You you you’re no better than your common, hired spy!

LADY FILSON.

[Rising and going to OTTOLINE.] My child, remember!

OTTOLINE.

[Clenching her hands and hissing her words at BERTRAM.] C’est la vérité! Tu n’es qu’une canaille une vile canaille!

LADY FILSON.

Control yourself, I beg!

OTTOLINE.

[To LADY FILSON.] Leave me alone!

[She passes LADY FILSON and sits on the settee on the right with glittering eyes and heaving bosom. PHILIP has withdrawn to the fireplace and is standing looking into the fire.

LADY FILSON.

[To BERTRAM.] Bertie dear, I’m surprised at you! To do a thing like this behind our backs!

BERTRAM.

My dear mother, I knew that you and father wouldnt do it

LADY FILSON.

I should think not, indeed!

SIR RANDLE.

[To BERTRAM.] Your mother and I!

LADY FILSON.

[Horrified at the notion.] Oh!

BERTRAM.

Upon my word, this is rather rough! [Walking away.] I mean to say!

PHILIP.

[Turning.] We mustnt be too hard on poor Bertram, Lady Filson

BERTRAM.

[Pacing the room near the big doors.] Poor Bertram! Ho!

SIR RANDLE.

[To PHILIP.] I trust we are never unduly hard on our children, my dear Philip

PHILIP.

To do him justice, he was most anxious to postpone these dreadful revelations till to-morrow

BERTRAM.

Exactly! [Throwing himself into the chair between the big doors and the vestibule door.] I predicted a scene! I predicted a scene!

PHILIP.

[To SIR RANDLE and LADY FILSON, penitently.] Perhaps it would have been wiser of me more considerate to have complied with his wishes. But I was in a fury naturally

LADY FILSON.

[Sitting on the settee on the left.] Naturally.

SIR RANDLE.

And excusably. I myself, in similar circumstances

PHILIP.

[Rubbing his head.] Why the deuce couldn’t he have kept his twopenny thunderbolt in his pocket for a few hours, instead of launching it to-night and spoiling our sole a la Morny and our ris de veau!

OTTOLINE.

[Gradually composing herself and regaining her dignity]. P-P-Philip

PHILIP.

[Coming to the smoking-table.] Eh?

OTTOLINE.

[Passing her handkerchief over her lips.] Need you need you see this man to-night? Can’t you stop him coming or send him away?

PHILIP.

Not see him?

OTTOLINE.

Why why should you stoop to see him at all? Why shouldn’t the matter be allowed to drop to drop?

PHILIP.

Drop!

OTTOLINE.

It it’s too monstrous; too absurd. [To BERTRAM, with a laugh.] Ha, ha, ha! Bertie Bertie dear

BERTRAM.

[Sullenly.] Yes?

OTTOLINE.

Ha, ha! I almost scared you out of your wits, didn’t I?

BERTRAM.

Youve behaved excessively rudely

LADY FILSON.

Bertram Bertram

BERTRAM.

I mean to say, mother! What becomes of family loyalty?

OTTOLINE.

[To BERTRAM, coaxingly.] Forgive me, Bertram. Im ashamed of my violent outburst. Forgive me

ROOPE.

[Who has been effacing himself behind the table on the left, appearing at the nearer end of the table.] Er dear excellent friends [SIR RANDLE and LADY FILSON look at ROOPE as if he had fallen from the skies, and BERTRAM stares at him resentfully.] dear excellent friends, if I may be permitted to make an observation

PHILIP.

[To ROOPE.] Go ahead, old man.

ROOPE.

In my opinion, it would be a thousand pities not to see Mr. Dunning to-night, and have done with him. [Cheerfully.] The fish is ruined we must resign ourselves to that; [sitting in the chair on the extreme left] but the other dishes, if the cook is fairly competent

SIR RANDLE.

[Advancing.] Mr. Roope’s opinion is my opinion also. [Ponderously.] As to whether Lady Filson and my daughter should withdraw into an adjoining room

LADY FILSON.

I feel with Philip; we couldnt sit down to dinner with this cloud hanging over us

SIR RANDLE.

[Sitting in the chair by the smoking-table.] Impossible! I must be frank. Impossible!

ROOPE.

Dear Madame de Chaumie will pardon me for differing with her, but you can’t very well ignore even a fellow of this stamp [glancing at BERTRAM] especially, if I understand aright, my excellent friend over there still persists

BERTRAM.

[Morosely.] Yes, you do understand aright, Roope. Ive every confidence in Dunning, I mean tsay

PHILIP.

[Turning away, angrily.] Oh!

LADY FILSON.

[Severely.] Bertie!

SIR RANDLE.

Bertram, my boy!

[The bell rings. There is a short silence, and then
BERTRAM rises and pulls down his waistcoat
portentously.

BERTRAM.

Here he is.

OTTOLINE.

[To LADY FILSON, in a low voice.] Mother?

LADY FILSON.

[To PHILIP.] Do you wish us to withdraw, Philip?

PHILIP.

[Sitting at the writing-table.] Not at all, Lady Filson. [Switching on the light of the library-lamp, sternly.] On the contrary, I should like you both to remain.

LADY FILSON.

[To OTTOLINE.] Otto dear?

OTTOLINE.

[Adjusting a comb in her hair.] Oh, certainly, mother, I’ll stay.

LADY FILSON.

[Arranging her skirt and settling herself majestically.] Of this we may be perfectly sure; when my son finds that he has been misled, purposely or unintentionally, he will be only too ready too ready

SIR RANDLE.

[Leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes.] That goes without saying, Winifred. A gentleman an English gentleman

BERTRAM.

[Who is watching the vestibule door over his shoulder, snappishly.] Oh, of course, father, if it turns out that I’ve been sold, I’ll eat humble-pie abjectly.

ROOPE.

[Shaking a finger at BERTRAM.] Ha, ha! I hope you’ve brought a voracious appetite with you, dear excellent friend.

BERTRAM.

[To ROOPE, exasperated.] Look heah, Mr. Roope!

[The vestibule door opens and JOHN announces
DUNNING.

JOHN.

Mr. Dunning.

[DUNNING enters and JOHN retires. MR. ALFRED DUNNING is a spruce, middle-aged, shrewd-faced man with an affable but rather curt manner. He is in his hat and overcoat.

DUNNING.

[To BERTRAM.] Haven’t kept you long, have I? I just had a cup o’ cocoa [He checks himself on seeing so large an assembly, removes his hat, and includes everybody in a summary bow.] Evening.

BERTRAM.

[To DUNNING.] Larger gathering than you expected. [Indicating the various personages by a glance.] Sir Randle and Lady Filson my father and mother

DUNNING.

[To SIR RANDLE and LADY FILSON.] Evening.

BERTRAM.

My sister, Madame de Chaumie

DUNNING.

[To OTTOLINE.] Evening.

BERTRAM.

Mr. Roope Mr. Mackworth

DUNNING.

[To them.] Evening.

[SIR RANDLE, LADY FILSON, and ROOPE, looking at DUNNING out of the corners of their eyes, acknowledge the introduction by a slight movement. PHILIP nods unpleasantly. OTTOLINE, with a stony countenance, also eyes DUNNING askance, and gives the barest possible inclination of her head on being named.

BERTRAM.

[Bringing forward the chair on which he has been sitting and planting it nearer to SIR RANDLE and LADY FILSON to DUNNING.] I suppose you may

DUNNING.

[Taking off his gloves and overcoat to PHILIP.] D’ye mind if I slip my coat off, Mr. Mackworth?

PHILIP.

[Growling.] No.

DUNNING.

Don’t want to get overheated, and catch the flue. I’ve got Mrs. D. in bed with a bad cold, as it is.

BERTRAM.

[To DUNNING.] Now then, Mr. Dunning! Ill trouble you to give us an account of your operations in this business from the outset

DUNNING.

[Hanging his coat over the back of the chair.] Pleasure.

BERTRAM.

The business of Mr. Mackworth’s new book, I mean t’say.

DUNNING.

[Sitting and placing his hat on the floor.] Pleasure.

BERTRAM.

Middle of October, wasn’t it, when I?

DUNNING.

Later. [Producing a dog’s-eared little memorandum-book and turning its leaves with a moistened thumb.] Here we are the twenty-fourth. [To everybody, referring to his notes as he proceeds glibly.] Mr. Filson called on me and Mr. Sillitoe, ladies and gentlemen, on the twenty-fourth of last month with reference to a book by Mr. P. Mackworth “The Big Drum” published September the second, and drew our attention to the advertisements of Mr. Mackworth’s publisher Mr. Clifford Titterton, of Charles Street, Adelphi relating to the same. Mr. F. having made us acquainted with the special circumstances of the case, and furnished us with his reasons for doubting Titterton’s flowery statements, [wetting his thumb again and turning to the next leaf of his note-book] on the following day, the twenty-fifth, I purchased a copy of the said book at Messrs. Blake and Hodgson’s in the Strand, Mr. Hodgson himself informing me in the course of conversation that, as far as his firm was concerned, the book wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary. [Repeating the thumb process.] I then proceeded to pump one of the gals er to interrogate one of the assistants at a circulating library Mrs. D. subscribes to, with a similar result. [Turning to the next leaf.] My next step

SIR RANDLE.

I wonder whether these elaborate preliminaries?

BERTRAM.

Oh, don’t interrupt, father! I mean to say!

DUNNING.

[Imperturbably.] My next step was to place the book in the hands of a lady whose liter’y judgment is a great deal sounder than mine or Mr. Sillitoe’s I allude to Mrs. D. and her report was that, though amusing in parts, she didn’t see anything in it to set the Thames on fire.

PHILIP.

[Laughing in spite of himself.] Ha, ha, ha!

ROOPE.

Ha, ha! [To PHILIP, with mock sympathy.] Dear excellent friend!

BERTRAM.

[To ROOPE.] Yes, all right, Mr. Roope!

DUNNING.

[Turning to the next leaf.] I and Mr. Sillitoe then had another confab er consultation with Mr. Filson, and we pointed out to him that it was up to his father and mother to challenge Titterton’s assertions and invite proof of their accuracy.

ROOPE.

[Quietly.] Obviously!

DUNNING.

Mr. F., however, giving us to understand that he was acting solely on his own, and that he wished the investigation kept from his family, we proposed a different plan

BERTRAM.

To which I reluctantly assented.

DUNNING.

To get hold of somebody in Tittertons office one of his employees, male or female

LADY FILSON.

[Shocked.] Oh! Oh, Bertie!

OTTOLINE.

[Rising, with a gesture of disgust.] Ah!

SIR RANDLE.

[To BERTRAM.] Really! Really, Bertram!

[Seeing OTTOLINE rise, PHILIP also rises and comes
to her.

LADY FILSON.

That a son of mine should countenance!

OTTOLINE.

[Panting.] Oh, but this is this is outrageous! [To SIR RANDLE and LADY FILSON.] Dad mother why should we degrade ourselves by listening any further? [To PHILIP.] Philip!

PHILIP.

[Patting her shoulder soothingly.] Tsch, tsch, tsch!

BERTRAM.

[To LADY FILSON and SIR RANDLE.] My dear mother my dear father you’re so impatient!

PHILIP.

[To OTTOLINE.] Tsch, tsch! Go back to the fire and toast your toes again.

BERTRAM.

I consider I was fully justified, I mean tsay

[Falteringly OTTOLINE returns to the fireplace. She stands there for a few seconds, clutching the mantel-shelf, and then subsides into the chair before the fire. PHILIP advances to the settee on the right.

PHILIP.

[To DUNNING.] Sorry we have checked your flow of eloquence, Mr. Dunning, even for a moment. [Sitting.] I wouldn’t miss a syllable of it. [Airily.] Do, please, continue.

SIR RANDLE.

[Looking at his watch.] My dear Philip!

BERTRAM.

[To DUNNING, wearily.] Oh, come to the man what’s his name, Dunning? Merryweather!

DUNNING.

[Turning several pages of his note-book with his wet thumb.] Merrifield.

BERTRAM.

Merrifield. [Passing behind DUNNING and half-seating himself on the further end of the table on the left.] Skip everything in between; [sarcastically] my father and mother are dying for their dinner.

LADY FILSON.

Bertram!

DUNNING.

[Finding the memorandum he is searching for, and quoting from it.] Henry Merrifield entry clerk to Titterton left Titterton, after a row, on the fifteenth of the present month

BERTRAM.

A stroke of luck Mr. Merrifield if ever there was one! I mean tsay

DUNNING.

[To everybody.] Having gleaned certain significant facts from the said Henry Merrifield, ladies and gentlemen, [referring to his notes] I paid two visits last week to the offices of Messrs. Hopwood & Co., of 6, Carmichael Lane, Walbrook, described in fresh paint on their door as Shipping and General Agents; and the conclusion I arrived at was that Messrs. Hopwood & Co. were a myth and their offices a blind, the latter consisting of a small room on the ground floor, eight foot by twelve, and their staff of the caretakers of the premises Mr. and Mrs. Sweasy an old woman and her husband

ROOPE.

[To DUNNING.] If I may venture to interpose again, what on earth have Messrs. Hopwood?

SIR RANDLE.

Yes, what have Messrs. Hopwood?

BERTRAM.

[Over his shoulder.] Ho! What have Messrs. Hopwood!

ROOPE.

[To BERTRAM, pointing to DUNNING.] I am addressing this gentleman, dear excellent friend

DUNNING.

[To ROOPE.] I’ll tell you, sir. [Incisively.] It’s to the bogus firm of Hopwood & Co. that the bulk of the volumes of Mr. Mackworth’s new book have been consigned.

BERTRAM.

[Getting off the table, eagerly.] Dunning has seen them, I mean tsay

SIR RANDLE.

[To BERTRAM, startled.] Be silent, Bertie!

LADY FILSON.

[To BERTRAM, holding her breath.] Do be quiet!

ROOPE.

[Blankly.] The the bulk of the volumes?

PHILIP.

[Staring at DUNNING.] The the bulk of the?

DUNNING.

[To SIR RANDLE and ROOPE.] Yes, gentlemen, the books are in a mouldy cellar, also rented by Messrs. Hopwood, at 6, Carmichael Lane. There’s thousands of them there, in cases some of the cases with shipping marks on them, some marked for inland delivery. I’ve inspected them this afternoon overhauled them. Mr. Sweasy had gone over to the Borough to see his married niece, and I managed to get the right side of Mrs. S.

SIR RANDLE.

[Softly, looking from one to the other.] Curious! Curious!

LADY FILSON.

[Forcing a smile.] How how strange!

ROOPE.

[To LADY FILSON, a little disturbed.] Why strange, dear Lady Filson? Shipping and other marks on the cases! These people are forwarding agents

DUNNING.

[Showing his teeth.] Nobody makes the least effort to despatch the cases, though. That’s singular, isn’t it?

ROOPE.

But!

DUNNING.

[To ROOPE.] My good sir, in the whole of our experience mine and Mr. Sillitoe’s we’ve never come across a neater bit of hankey-pankey [to PHILIP] no offence and if Merrifield hadnt smelt a rat

ROOPE.

But but but the cost of it all, my dear Mr. Dunning! I don’t know much about these things the expense of manufacturing many thousands of copies of Mr. Mackworth’s new book!

SIR RANDLE.

[Alertly.] Quite so! Surely, if we were to be deceived, a simpler method could have been found?

ROOPE.

[With energy.] Besides, what has Mr. Titterton to gain by the deception?

SIR RANDLE.

True! True! What has he to gain?

PHILIP.

[Who is sitting with his hands hanging loosely, utterly bewildered rousing himself.] Good God, yes! What has Titterton to gain by joining me in a blackguardly scheme to to to?

DUNNING.

[To SIR RANDLE and ROOPE.] Well, gentlemen, in the first place, its plain that Titterton was too fly to risk being easily blown upon

BERTRAM.

He was prepared to prove that the books have been manufactured and delivered, I mean tsay

DUNNING.

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

LADY FILSON.

[Keenly.] Speculation?

DUNNING.

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

[PHILIP starts to his feet with a cry of rage.

PHILIP.

Oh!

ROOPE.

[Jumping up and hurrying to PHILIP_ pacifying him._] My dear Phil my dear old chap

PHILIP.

[Grasping ROOPE_’s arm._] Robbie!

[SIR RANDLE rises and goes to LADY FILSON. She also
rises as he approaches her. They gaze at each other with
expressionless faces.

ROOPE.

[To PHILIP.] Where does Titterton live?

PHILIP.

Gordon Square.

ROOPE.

[Pointing to the telephone.] Telephone have him round

PHILIP.

He’s not in London.

ROOPE.

Not?

PHILIP.

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

SIR RANDLE.

[Constrainedly.] Frankly I must be frank I hardly know what to believe.

LADY FILSON.

[Pursing her mouth.] We we hardly know what to believe.

PHILIP.

[Leaving them.] Ah!

ROOPE.

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

PHILIP.

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

ROOPE.

[Over his shoulder, to DUNNING.] Hey, Mr. Dunning?

DUNNING.

Pleasure.

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

SIR RANDLE.

[Advancing a step or two.] At what hour?

DUNNING.

[Briskly.] Ten-thirty suit you, gentlemen?

SIR RANDLE, PHILIP, and ROOPE.

[Together.] Half-past-ten.

ROOPE.

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

DUNNING.

[Pulling down his under-coat.] I’ll be there.

ROOPE.

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

BERTRAM.

[Sniggering.] Why, Titterton, of course. I mean to say!

ROOPE.

[Waving BERTRAM down.] Dear excellent friend!

DUNNING.

[Taking up his hat, which he has laid upon the smoking-table to ROOPE, with a satisfied air.] Mr. Sillitoe’s got that in hand, sir. What I have ascertained is that a young feller strolls in occasionally and smokes a cigarette

BERTRAM.

And pokes about in the cellar

DUNNING.

Calls himself Hopwood. But the name written on the lining of his hat [to BERTRAM, carelessly] oh, I forgot to mention this to you, Mr. Filson. [Producing his memorandum-book again.] Old mother Sweasy was examining the young man’s outdoor apparel the other day. [Turning the pages with his wet thumb.] The name on the lining of his hat is [finding the entry] is “Westrip.” “Leonard Westrip.”

BERTRAM.

Westrip?

SIR RANDLE.

Leonard Westrip?

LADY FILSON.

Mr. Westrip!

SIR RANDLE.

[To DUNNING, blinking.] Mr. Westrip is my secretary.

BERTRAM.

[To DUNNING, agape.] He’s my father’s secretary.

DUNNING.

[To SIR RANDLE.] Your seckert’ry?

PHILIP.

[Coming to the nearer end of the settee on the left.] The the the fair boy I’ve seen in Ennismore Gardens!

ROOPE.

[Rising and joining SIR RANDLE and LADY FILSON_ expressing his amazement by flourishing his arms._] Oh, my dear excellent friends!

LADY FILSON.

[To SIR RANDLE.] Randle what what next!

SIR RANDLE.

[Closing his eyes.] Astounding! Astounding!

DUNNING.

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

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

OTTOLINE.

[To DUNNING, repeating her gesture.] Stop! [To LADY FILSON and SIR RANDLE, in a strained voice.] Mother Dad

[Everybody looks at her, surprised at her manner.

LADY FILSON.

Otto dear?

OTTOLINE.

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

SIR RANDLE.

You, my darling?

OTTOLINE.

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

LADY FILSON.

Helping you?

SIR RANDLE.

Helping you?

OTTOLINE.

[Inclining her head.] Helping me. He he [Raising her eyes defiantly and confronting them all.] Ecoutez! Robbie Roope has asked who is the actual tenant of the cellar and room in Carmichael Lane. [Breathing deeply.] I am.

LADY FILSON.

[Advancing a few steps.] You are! N-n-nonsense!

OTTOLINE.

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

LADY FILSON.

With Titterton! Then he he has?

OTTOLINE.

Yes. The thousands of copies packed in the cases with the lying labels I have bought them theyre mine

LADY FILSON.

Y-y-yours!

OTTOLINE.

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

LADY FILSON.

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

OTTOLINE.

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

LADY FILSON.

Ottoline!

OTTOLINE.

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

[BERTRAM, aghast, nudges DUNNING and hurries to the vestibule door. DUNNING follows him into the vestibule on tiptoe. Slowly and deliberately PHILIP moves to the middle of the room and stands there with his hands clenched, glaring into space. SIR RANDLE, his jaw falling, sits in the chair on the extreme left.

LADY FILSON.

[Touching PHILIP_’s arm sympathetically._] Oh, Philip!

DUNNING.

[To BERTRAM, in a whisper.] Phiou! Rummy development this, Mr. Filson!

BERTRAM.

[To DUNNING, in the same way.] Awful. [Opening the outer door.] I I’ll see you in the m-m-morning.

DUNNING.

Pleasure. [Raising his voice.] Evening, ladies and gentlemen.

LADY FILSON.

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

SIR RANDLE.

[Weakly.] Good night.

ROOPE.

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

[DUNNING disappears, and BERTRAM closes the outer door and comes back into the room. Shutting the vestibule door, he sinks into the chair lately vacated by DUNNING. There is a silence, broken at length by a low, grating laugh from PHILIP.

PHILIP.

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

LADY FILSON.

[Dolefully.] Oh, Ottoline Ottoline!

PHILIP.

Ha, ha, ha!

OTTOLINE.

[Creeping to the nearer end of the writing-table.] H’ssh! H’ssh! Philip Philip!

PHILIP.

[Loudly.] Ho, ho, ho!

OTTOLINE.

Don’t! don’t! [Making a movement of entreaty towards him.] Phil Phil!

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

PHILIP.

[After a moment’s pause, bitingly.] Thank you thank you [turning from her and seating himself in the chair by the smoking-table and resting his chin on his fist] thank you.

[Again there is a pause, and then OTTOLINE draws
herself up proudly and moves in a stately fashion
towards the vestibule door.

OTTOLINE.

[At BERTRAM_s side._] Bertram my cloak

[BERTRAM rises meekly and fetches her cloak.

SIR RANDLE.

[Getting to his feet and approaching PHILIP_ mournfully._] Your mother’s wrap, also, Bertram.

LADY FILSON.

[Rising.] Yes, let us all go home.

SIR RANDLE.

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

LADY FILSON.

I have never felt so ashamed in my life!

SIR RANDLE.

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

PHILIP.

[Shaking SIR RANDLE_’s hand mechanically._] Good night.

[As SIR RANDLE turns away, LADY FILSON comes to PHILIP. BERTRAM, having helped OTTOLINE with her cloak, now brings LADY FILSON_’s wrap from the vestibule._ SIR RANDLE takes it from him, and BERTRAM then returns to the vestibule and puts on his overcoat.

LADY FILSON.

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

PHILIP.

[Gratefully.] Good night.

[LADY FILSON leaves PHILIP and looks about for her
wrap. SIR RANDLE puts her into it and then goes into
the vestibule and wrestles with his overcoat.

BERTRAM.

[Coming to PHILIP, humbly.] M M Mackworth I I

PHILIP.

[Kindly.] No, no; dont you bother, old man

BERTRAM.

I I could kick myself, Mackworth, I could indeed. Ive been a sneak and a cad, I mean tsay, and and Im properly paid out

PHILIP.

[Shaking him gently.] Why, what are you remorseful for? Youve only brought out the truth, Bertie

BERTRAM.

Yes, but I mean to say!

PHILIP.

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

BERTRAM.

[Wringing PHILIP_’s hand._] Good night, Mackworth. [Turning from PHILIP and seeing ROOPE, who, anxiously following events, is standing by the chair on the extreme left.] Good night, Roope.

ROOPE.

G-g-good night.

LADY FILSON.

[Half in the room and half in the vestibule to ROOPE, remembering his existence.] Oh, good night, Mr. Roope!

ROOPE.

Good night, dear Lady Filson.

SIR RANDLE.

[In the vestibule.] Good night, Mr. Roope.

ROOPE.

Good night. Good night, dear excellent friends.

LADY FILSON.

[To OTTOLINE, who is lingering by the big doors.] Ottoline

[LADY FILSON and BERTRAM join SIR RANDLE in the vestibule and SIR RANDLE opens the outer door. PHILIP, his hands behind him and his chin on his breast, has walked to the fireplace and is standing there looking fixedly into the fire. OTTOLINE slowly comes forward and fingers the back of the chair by the smoking-table.

OTTOLINE.

Good night, Philip.

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

ROOPE.

[Advancing to her under his breath.] Oh!

OTTOLINE.

[Giving him her hand.] Ah! [With a plaintive shrug.] Vous voyez! C’est fini âpres tout!

ROOPE.

No, no!

OTTOLINE.

[Withdrawing her hand.] Pst! [Throwing her head up.] Good night, Robbie.

[With a queenly air she sweeps into the vestibule and follows SIR RANDLE and LADY FILSON out on to the landing. BERTRAM closes the vestibule door, and immediately afterwards the outer door slams.

ROOPE.

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

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

PHILIP.

[To JOHN, sternly.] Dinner.

JOHN.

[Looking for the guests dumbfoundered] D-d-dinner, sir?

PHILIP.

Serve dinner.

JOHN.

[His eyes bolting.] The the the ladies and gentlemen have gone, sir!

PHILIP.

Yes. I’m dining alone.

[JOHN vanishes precipitately; whereupon PHILIP
strides to the big doors, thrusts them wide open with a
blow of his fists, and sits at the dining-table.