OTTOLINE.

[_Starting up._] Oh, do try to be understanding and sympathetic! Mr.

Mackworth is a high-souled, n.o.ble 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 the _other_ sort 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.

[_To_ SIR RANDLE _and_ BERTRAM.] 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. _I_ was, 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'eleve et de grand!_ [_Fiercely._] _Tenez!

Qu'il vous plaise ou non----!_

[_She is checked by the entrance of_ UNDERWOOD _from the hall._

UNDERWOOD.

[_Addressing the back of_ LADY FILSON_'s head._] Mr. Philip Mackworth, m'lady.

LADY FILSON.

[_Straightening herself._] Not for me. [_Firmly._] For Madame de Chaumie.

UNDERWOOD.

I beg pardon, m'lady. The gentleman inquired for your ladyship----

OTTOLINE.

[_To_ UNDERWOOD.] In the drawing-room--[_with a queenly air_] no, in my own room.

UNDERWOOD.

[_To_ OTTOLINE.] Yes, mad'm.

[UNDERWOOD _withdraws._

OTTOLINE.

[_Approaching_ SIR RANDLE _and_ LADY 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.

[_To_ SIR 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._]

You _won't_----?

[SIR RANDLE _blinks at the ceiling again._ LADY FILSON _scribbles audibly with a scratchy pen._ OTTOLINE _goes 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.