[_Somewhat disturbed._] Strictly.

MISS TRACER.

[_Smiling at him winningly and moving to the settee before the fireplace._] You're a nice boy; I'm sure you wouldn't make mischief.

[_Sinking on to the settee with a yawn._] Oh! Oh, I'm so weary!

WESTRIP.

Weary? Before you've begun your morning's work!

MISS TRACER.

_Before_ I've begun it! I had a parade downstairs in the servants' hall at a quarter-to-ten.

WESTRIP.

Parade?

MISS TRACER.

We've two new women in the house who are perfect idiots. They _can't_ remember to say "yes, my lady" and "no, my lady" and "very good, my lady" whenever Lady Filson speaks to them. One of them actually addressed her yesterday as "ma'am." I wonder the roof didn't fall in.

WESTRIP.

[_Meditatively._] I've noticed that Sir Randle and Lady Filson have a great relish for being Sir'd and Lady'd.

MISS TRACER.

Ha, ha! Rather! [_Over her shoulder._] _You_ take a friendly hint. If your predecessor had Sir Randle'd and Lady Filson'd them more frequently, you wouldn't be standing in his shoes at this moment.

WESTRIP.

[_In the middle of the room, his hands in his pockets._] Why _was_ Sir Randle knighted, do you know?

MISS TRACER.

Built a large drill-hall for the Territorials near his country place at Bramsfold.

WESTRIP.

[_Innocently._] Oh, is he interested in the Territorials?

MISS TRACER.

[_Partly raising herself._] Interested in the Territorials! How simple you are! He cares as much for the Territorials as I care for snakes.

[_Kneeling upon the settee and resting her arms on the back of it, talkatively._] The drill-hall was _her_ notion; she engineered the whole affair.

WESTRIP.

[_Opening his eyes wider and wider._] Lady Filson?

MISS TRACER.

[_Nodding._] Her maid's my informant. A few years ago he was growing frightfully down-in-the-mouth. He fancied he'd got stuck, as it were--that everybody was getting an honour but himself. So the blessed shanty was run up in a devil of a hurry--excuse my Greek; and as soon as it was dry, Mrs. Filson, as she then was, wrote to some big-wig or other--without her husband's knowledge, she explained--and called attention to the service he'd rendered to the cause of patriotism.

Lambert saw the draft of the letter on her mistress's dressing-table.

[_Shaking with laughter._] Ho, ho, ho! And what d'ye think?

WESTRIP.

W-well?

MISS TRACER.

The corrections were in _his_ handwriting!

WESTRIP.

[_Shocked._] In Sir Randle's----!

MISS TRACER.

[_Jumping up._] Phiou! I'm fearfully indiscreet. [_Going to_ WESTRIP _and touching his coat-sleeve._] Between ourselves, Mr. Westrip!

WESTRIP.

[_Moving to the round table._] Quite--quite.

MISS TRACER.

[_Following him._] Oh, they're not a bad sort, by any means, if you just humour them a bit. We all have our little weaknesses, haven't we?

I've mine, I confess.

WESTRIP.

They've both been excessively kind to _me_. [_Turning to her._] And as for Madame de Chaumie----

MISS TRACER.

Oh, she's a dear--a regular dear!

WESTRIP.

[_Fervently._] By Jove, isn't she!

MISS TRACER.

But then, _my_ theory is that she was changed at her birth. _She's_ not a genuine Filson, I'll swear. [_Suddenly walking away from him._] H'sh!