_On the other side of the room, facing the spectator and following the line of the oblique wall, is a second settee. On the left of this settee is an arm-chair, on the right a round table and another chair.

Books and periodicals are strewn upon the table. Against the wall at the back, between the doors, are an oblong table and a chair; and other articles of furniture and embellishment--cabinets of various kinds, jardinieres, mirrors, lamps, etc., etc.--occupy s.p.a.ces not provided for in this description._

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

_It is daylight._

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

MISS TRACER.

[_Calling out._] Eh?

[_The door opens and_ LEONARD WESTRIP _appears. He carries a pile of press-cuttings._

WESTRIP.

[_A fresh-coloured, boyish young man._] I beg your pardon----[_seeing that_ MISS TRACER _is alone_] oh, good morning.

MISS TRACER.

Good morning.

WESTRIP.

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

MISS TRACER.

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

WESTRIP.

[_Advancing._] I thought she'd like to look through these. [_Showing_ MISS TRACER _the press-cuttings._] From the press-cutting agency.

MISS TRACER.

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

WESTRIP.

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

MISS TRACER.

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

WESTRIP.

Yes; he's gone to a memorial service.

MISS TRACER.

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

WESTRIP.

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

MISS TRACER.

[_Laughing slyly._] He, he, he! Ho, ho!

WESTRIP.

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

MISS TRACER.

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

WESTRIP.

Not known them!

MISS TRACER.

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

WESTRIP.

[_Puzzled._] But if he hasn't known them, why should he----?

MISS TRACER.

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

WESTRIP.

[_Incredulously._] Oh, Miss Tracer!

MISS TRACER.

Gospel. [_Taking up the press-cuttings and looking through them._] Many are the sympathetic souls who are grief-stricken in these days for the same reason. Here we are! [_Reading from a cutting._] Late Viscount Petersfield ... memorial service ... St. Margaret's, Westminster ...

among those present ... h'm, h'm, h'm ... Sir Randle Filson ... wreaths were sent by ... h'm, h'm, h'm, h'm ... Sir Randle and Lady Filson!

[_Replacing the press-cuttings upon the table._] Ha, ha, ha, ha--!

[_Checking herself and turning to_ WESTRIP.] Our conversation is strictly private, Mr. Westrip?

WESTRIP.