LADY FILSON.

Taking advantage of a silly, emotional woman, to feather his nest!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Rising and pacing up and down between the glazed door and the settee on the right._] I shall have difficulty--[_shaking his uplifted fist_]

I shall have difficulty in restraining myself from denouncing Mr.

Mackworth in her presence!

BERTRAM.

[_Dismally._] As to the wedding, there's no reason that I can see--because a lady marries a literary man, I mean t'say--why the function should be a shabby one.

LADY FILSON.

[_Rising and moving about at the back distractedly._] That it sha'n't be! If we can't prevent my poor girl from throwing herself away, I'm determined her _wedding_ shall be smart and impressive!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Bitterly, with wild gestures._] "The interesting engagement is announced of Mr.--Mr.----"

BERTRAM.

[_Wandering to the fireplace, his chin on his breast._] Philip, father.

SIR RANDLE.

"--Mr. Philip Mackworth, the well-known novelist, to Ottoline, widow of the late Comte de Chaumie--[_peeping into the hall through the side of one of the curtains of the glazed door--his voice dying to a mutter_]

only daughter of Sir Randle and Lady Filson----"

LADY FILSON.

"Mrs.--Philip--Mackworth"! Ha, ha, ha! Mrs. Philip n.o.body!

BERTRAM.

[_Joining her._] Perhaps it would be wiser, mother, for me to retire while the interview takes place.

LADY FILSON.

[_Falling upon his neck._] Oh, my dear boy----!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Getting away from the door._] They're coming!

BERTRAM.

[_Quickly._] I'm near you if you want me, I mean t'say----

[_He goes out at the door on the left._ LADY FILSON _hastily resumes her seat at the writing-table, and_ SIR RANDLE, _pulling himself together, crosses to the fireplace. The glazed door opens and_ OTTOLINE _appears with_ PHILIP.

OTTOLINE.

[_Quietly._] Mr. Mackworth, mother--Dad----

PHILIP.

[_Advancing to_ LADY FILSON _cordially._] How do you do, Lady Filson?

LADY FILSON.

[_Giving him a reluctant hand and eyeing him askance with mingled aversion and indignation._] H-how do you do?

PHILIP.

This is very good of you. [_Bowing to_ SIR RANDLE.] How are you, Sir Randle?

SIR RANDLE.

[_His head in the air, severely._] How do you do, Mr. Mackworth?

PHILIP.

[_Breaking the ice._] We--we meet after many years----

SIR RANDLE.

Many.

LADY FILSON.

[_Still examining_ PHILIP.] M-many.

PHILIP.

And--if you've ever bestowed a thought on me since the old Paris days--in a way you can scarcely have expected.

LADY FILSON.

[_Turning to the writing-table to conceal her repugnance._] Scarcely.

SIR RANDLE.

Scarcely.

PHILIP.

[_To_ SIR RANDLE.] Oh, I am not vain enough, Sir Randle, to flatter myself that what you have heard from Ottoline gives you and Lady Filson unmixed pleasure. On the contrary----