SIR TIMOTHY.

[_Emphatically, raising his head._] It is _not_. [_With a despairing gesture._] I'm broken-hearted, Sir Randle. That's what I am; I'm broken-hearted.

LADY FILSON.

[_Sitting in the low-backed arm-chair on the left._] Oh, dear!

SIR TIMOTHY.

[_Sighing._] If I'd had the pluck to declare myself sooner, it might have been different. [_Staring before him._] From the moment I first set eyes on her, at the dinner-party you gave to welcome her on her arrival in London--from that moment I was captured completely, body and soul. The sight of her as she stood in the drawing-room beside her mother, with her pretty, white face and her elegant figure, and a gown clinging to her that looked as though she'd been born in it--'twill never fade from me if I live to be as old as a dozen Methuselahs!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Pryingly._] Er--has Ottoline--I have no desire to probe an open wound--has she a.s.signed any--reason----?

SIR TIMOTHY.

[_Rousing himself._] For rejecting me?

SIR RANDLE.

[_With a wave of the hand._] For----

LADY FILSON.

For not seeing her way clear----

SIR RANDLE.

To--er--in short--accept you?

SIR TIMOTHY.

She _has_.

LADY FILSON.

_Has_ she!

SIR TIMOTHY.

The best--and, for me, the worst--of reasons. There's another man in the case.

SIR RANDLE.

Another----?

LADY FILSON.

Another----!

SIR RANDLE.

[_To_ LADY FILSON.] Extraordinary!

LADY FILSON.

Bewildering.

SIR RANDLE.

We have been blind, Winnie.

LADY FILSON.

Absolutely.

SIR TIMOTHY.

And, whoever he may be, I trust he'll worship her as devoutly as I do, and treat her with half the gentleness _I'd_ have treated her with, had she selected _me_ for her Number Two.

SIR RANDLE.

[_Piously._] Amen! [_To_ LADY FILSON.] Winifred----?

LADY FILSON.

[_Rather fretfully._] Amen.

SIR TIMOTHY.

[_Rising._] And with that sentiment on my lips, and in every fibre of my body, I'll relieve you of my depressing company. [_Going to_ LADY FILSON, _who rises at his approach, and taking her hand._] My dear lady----

LADY FILSON.

[_Genuinely._] My dear Sir Timothy!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Moving to the glazed door._] Painful! Painful!

[_As_ SIR TIMOTHY _turns from_ LADY FILSON, BERTRAM _reappears, in morning-dress, entering from the hall._

BERTRAM.

[_Drawing back on seeing_ SIR TIMOTHY.] Oh! [_To_ SIR RANDLE.] Am I intruding?

SIR RANDLE.