Lady Filson.
I'minclined 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.
Iventure to suggest it may be Edward Trefusis.
Sir Randle.
[ToBertram,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! [ToLady 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 Filsonrises and almost runs to the writing-table, where she sits and snatches at a sheet of paper.Sir Randlefollows 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 andOttolineenters. She pauses, looking at the group at the writing-table.
Sir Randle.
[ToLady 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.
Ipraythere 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 sister's train, I mean t'say——
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 tosay——!
[Ottolineshuts the door with a click.Sir RandleandLady Filsonturn, startled, andLady Filsonslips 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'tvolunteerthe 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.
[ToBertram,who is slowly getting to his feet.] Go away, Bertie darling.
Ottoline.
Mais pourquoi?Bertie knows everything, obviously.
Lady Filson.
Why shouldn't he, Otto? Your brother is as interested as we are——
Ottoline.
But of course!Naturellement![With a shrug.]C'est une affaire de famille.[ToBertram,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. [ToSir RandleandLady Filson.] Sit down, Dad; sit down, mother. [Sir Randlesits in the chair on the left of the settee on the right,Lady Filsonin the low-backed arm-chair, andBertramat 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 don't mean surprised at my—having made Sir Timothy unhappy; I mean surprised at hearing there is—someone else——
Sir Randle.
My dear child,thatsurprises us even less.
Lady Filson.
Your dear father and I, Ottoline, are not unaware of themanyeligible 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.
[ToBertram.] Thank you, my boy.
Ottoline.
[In a rigid attitude.] It's 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 I'm going to make—and spared me——
Sir Randle.
The edge——?
Lady Filson.
Sparedyou—? [Staring atOttoline.] 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—[toSir 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'sit! 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 itis. [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. There's 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.
Whois 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.
Icall 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, hehasn'tbeen 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 Filsonfinds 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! [ToBertram,who comes to her.] Oh, my boy!
Sir Randle.
[Gazing blinkingly at the ceiling asLady Filsonsinks upon the settee.] Incredible! Incredible!
Bertram.
[Sitting besideLady 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 theothersort 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.
[ToSir RandleandBertram.] 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.Iwas, 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'élevé et de grand![Fiercely.]Tenez! Qu'il vous plaise ou non——!
[She is checked by the entrance ofUnderwoodfrom the hall.
Underwood.
[Addressing the back ofLady Filson's head.] Mr. Philip Mackworth, m'lady.
Lady Filson.
[Straightening herself.] Not for me. [Firmly.] For Madame de Chaumié.
Underwood.
I beg pardon, m'lady. The gentleman inquired for your ladyship——
Ottoline.
[ToUnderwood.] In the drawing-room—[with a queenly air] no, in my own room.
Underwood.
[ToOttoline.] Yes, mad'm.
[Underwoodwithdraws.
Ottoline.
[ApproachingSir RandleandLady 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.
[ToSir 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.] Youwon't——?
[Sir Randleblinks at the ceiling again.Lady Filsonscribbles audibly with a scratchy pen.Ottolinegoes 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.
[ToLady Filson,blankly.] Winnie——?
Lady Filson.
R-Randle——?
Sir Randle.
[Biting his nails.] He's right. [Bertramhastens to the glazed door.] Dear Bertram is right.
Bertram.
[Opening the door.] You'll see him——?
Lady Filson.
Y-yes.
Sir Randle.
Yes. [Bertramdisappears.Sir Randlepaces 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 yoursalon—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 can't bear much more——
Sir Randle.
He isn't even inWho's Who, Winnie!
[Bertramreturns, 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.Bertramslowly 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 herweddingshall 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 Chaumié—[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.] I'm near you if you want me, I mean t'say——
[He goes out at the door on the left.Lady Filsonhastily resumes her seat at the writing-table, andSir Randle,pulling himself together, crosses to the fireplace. The glazed door opens andOttolineappears withPhilip.
Ottoline.
[Quietly.] Mr. Mackworth, mother—Dad——
Philip.
[Advancing toLady Filsoncordially.] 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 toSir 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 examiningPhilip.] 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.
[ToSir 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 toLady Filsonand touching her gently—in a low voice.] Mother——!
Philip.
[Smiling atOttolineapologetically.] 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 toPhilip.] 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 RandlemotionsPhilipto the settee on the right.Philipsits. ThenOttolinesits on the settee before the fireplace, andSir Randlein the arm-chair byPhilip.Lady Filsonturns in her chair to listen.
Sir Randle.
[ToPhilip,majestically.] Before you embark upon your explanation, permit me to definemyposition—mine and Lady Filson's. [Philipnods.] 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. [Philipnods 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—Imustbe 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 Chaumié, 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—toPhilip.] 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 fromPhilip.] But you have not—to use my daughter's 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——! [ToPhilip.] 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;notby the late Comte de Chaumié, but by myself. [Closing his eyes.] I have never been a niggardly parent, Mr. Mackworth.
Ottoline.
[Softly, without turning.] Indeed, no, Dad!
Philip.
[ToSir Randle,bluntly.] Yes, Idoknow 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.]Therethen, my dear Mr. Mackworth, is the state of the case. Ottoline is beyond our control——
Lady Filson.
Unhappily.
Sir Randle.
If shewilldeal 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 toPhilip,partly atOttoline.] What construction would be put upon a union between you and Madame de Chaumié—between a lady of means and—Imustbe cruel—Imustbe brutal—a man who is—commercially at least—a failure?
Lady Filson.
Therecouldonly be one construction put upon it!
Ottoline.
[Rising.] Mother——!
Philip.
[ToSir Randle,calmly.] Oh, but—ah, Ottoline hasn't told you——!
Ottoline.
[ToPhilip.] No, I hadn't time, Philip——
Philip.
My dear Sir Randle—[rising and going toLady 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.
[ToSir RandleandLady 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.
[ToPhilip,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.
[ToLady 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 uponPhilip.] 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; andthereyour name has escaped me.
Philip.
Oh, I've been at it for nearly ten years.
Lady Filson.
Ten years!
Philip.
[ToSir Randle.] I began soon after I left Paris.
Sir Randle.
And what ground, sir, have you for anticipating that you willeverachieve popularity as a writer?
Lady Filson.
[Sitting in the chair by the round table.] Preposterous!
Ottoline.
[Stamping her foot.] Mother——! [ToSir Randle.] Philip has high expectations of his next novel, Dad. It is to be published in the autumn—September.
Sir Randle.
[ToPhilip.] 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 ifthatfails——!
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.
Ifthatfails, 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.
[ToPhilip,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 bookhasfailed to attract the public, [crossing toSir Randle] and that in the meantime he sha'n't be scowled at when he presents himself in Ennismore Gardens. [Seating herself besideSir Randleand slipping her arm through his.] Dad——!
Lady Filson.
[ToPhilip.] Mr. Mackworth——!
Philip.
[Rousing himself and turning toSir RandleandLady 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, thereisa good deal to be said against it.
Lady Filson.
There's nothing to be saidforit. Oh——!
Sir Randle.
[ToLady Filson.] Winifred—[ToPhilip.] 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 RandleandLady Filsonlook at each other in surprise andOttolinestares atPhilipopen-mouthed.
Ottoline.
Philip——!
Philip.
[ToSir Randle.] Sir Randle——?
Sir Randle.
[ToLady Filson.] Winnie——?
Lady Filson.
[In a softer tone.] It certainly seems to me that Mr. Mackworth's 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 littletoofar? [Contracting her brows.] It disposes ofmeas if I were of no more account than a sawdust doll! [ToPhilip.] Ah, traitor! [In a low voice.]Vos promesses à 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 toLady Filson.] Good-bye, Lady Filson. [She rises and shakes hands with him.] Have I bought my right ofentrée? 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 withSir Randle,who has risen and is standing in the middle of the room.
Philip.
[ToSir Randle.] Good-bye.
Sir Randle.
[DetainingPhilip,searchingly.] Er—pardon me—this new novel of yours, on which you place so much reliance—pray don't think me curious——
Ottoline.
[Suddenly.] Ha! [Coming to the back of the settee on the right, her eyes gleaming scornfully atSir 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.
[PromptingPhilip.] It's called—allons! racontez donc!——
Philip.
[After a further look of protest atOttoline—toSir 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! [ToLady Filson.] Eh, Winifred?
Lady Filson.
[Politely.] Excellent; quite, quite excellent!
Philip.
[Bowing toLady Filsonand going toOttoline.] Thank you.
Ottoline.
[ToPhilip,glowingly.] Splendid! [Laying her hand upon his arm.] You have purged your disgrace. [Softly.] You may come and see me to-morrow.
Philip.
[ToOttoline.] Ha, ha——!
Sir Randle.
[In response to a final bow fromPhilip.] Good-bye.
Lady Filson.
Good-bye.
[Ottolineopens the glazed door andPhilipfollows her into the hall. Immediately the door is shut,Lady Filsonhurries toSir Randle.
Sir Randle.
[In high spirits.] Winnie——!
Lady Filson.
Thatwill 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. Wemustbe just. We owe it to ourselves to be just to Mr. Mackworth. He is not altogether devoid of gentlemanlike scruples.
Lady Filson.
[Breathlessly.] And—andshe——?
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 asSir Randlestalks to the door on the left.
Lady Filson.
Masterly!
Sir Randle.
[Opening the door.] Bertram—Bertram, my boy—Bertie——!
[He disappears.Lady Filsonscribbles violently.