[LADY FILSON, _a handsome, complacent woman of about fifty-seven, enters from the hall._

LADY FILSON.

[_Who carries a hand-bag crammed with letters, cards of invitation, etc._] Good morning.

MISS TRACER _and_ WESTRIP.

Good morning, Lady Filson.

LADY FILSON.

[_Closing the door and advancing._] Oh, Mr. Westrip, I wish you'd try to find the last number of the _Trifler_. It must have been taken out of my bedroom by one of the servants.

WESTRIP.

[_Searching among the periodicals on the round table._] Certainly, Lady Filson.

MISS TRACER.

Oh, Lady Filson, don't keep that horrid snapshot of you and Sir Randle!

It's _too_ unflattering.

LADY FILSON.

[_At the writing-table._] As if that mattered! So are the portraits of Lord and Lady Sturminster on the same page. [_Sitting at the table and emptying her bag._] These absurd things give Sir Randle and me a hearty laugh; that's why I preserve them.

WESTRIP.

It isn't here. [_Going to the glazed door._] I'll hunt for it downstairs.

LADY FILSON.

Thank you. [_Discovering the pile of press-cuttings._] What's this?

[_Affecting annoyance._] Not more press-cuttings! [_Beginning to devour the cuttings._] Tcht, tcht, tcht!

[_As_ WESTRIP _reaches the door,_ BERTRAM FILSON _enters. He is wearing riding-dress._

BERTRAM.

[_A conceited, pompous young man of thirty._] Good morning, Mr.

Westrip.

WESTRIP.

Good morning, Mr. Filson.

[WESTRIP _goes out, closing the door._

BERTRAM.

[_To_ MISS TRACER.] Good morning, Miss Tracer.

MISS TRACER.

[_Who has seated herself in the chair at the further side of the writing-table--meekly._] Good morning.

LADY FILSON.

[_Half turning to_ BERTRAM, _the press-cuttings in her hand._] Ah, my darling! Was that you I saw speaking to Underwood as I came through the hall?

BERTRAM.

Yes, mother dear. [_Bending over her and kissing her._] How are you?

LADY FILSON.

[_Dotingly._] Enjoyed your ride, my pet?

BERTRAM.

Fairly, mother.

LADY FILSON.

Only fairly?

BERTRAM.

[_Shutting his eyes._] Such an appalling crowd of ordinary people in the Row, I mean t'say.

LADY FILSON.

How dreadful for you! [_Giving him the press-cuttings._] Sit down, if you're not too warm, and look at this rubbish while I talk to Miss Tracer.

BERTRAM.

Press-cuttings?

LADY FILSON.

Isn't it strange, the way the papers follow all our doings!

BERTRAM.

Not in the least, mother. [_Sitting upon the settee on the right and reading the press-cuttings._] I mean t'say, I consider it perfectly right and proper.

LADY FILSON.

[_Sorting her letters and cards--to_ MISS TRACER.] There's not much this morning, Miss Tracer. [_Handing some letters to_ MISS TRACER.]