LADY FILSON.

Ten years!

PHILIP.

[_To_ SIR RANDLE.] I began soon after I left Paris.

SIR RANDLE.

And what ground, sir, have you for antic.i.p.ating that you will _ever_ achieve popularity as a writer?

LADY FILSON.

[_Sitting in the chair by the round table._] Preposterous!

OTTOLINE.

[_Stamping her foot._] Mother----! [_To_ SIR RANDLE.] Philip has high expectations of his next novel, Dad. It is to be published in the autumn--September.

SIR RANDLE.

[_To_ PHILIP.] And should that prove no more successful with the "wide public" than those which have preceded it----?

PHILIP.

Then I--then I fling another at 'em.

SIR RANDLE.

Which would occupy you----?

PHILIP.

Twelve months.

LADY FILSON.

And if _that_ fails----!

PHILIP.

[_Smiling again, but rather constrainedly._] Ah, you travel too quickly for me, Lady Filson--you and Sir Randle! You heap disaster on disaster----

SIR RANDLE.

If _that_ fails, another twelve-months' labour!

LADY FILSON.

While my daughter is wasting the best years of her life!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Indignantly._] Really, Mr. Mackworth! [_Throwing himself upon the settee on the right._] Really! I appeal to you! Is this fair?

LADY FILSON.

Is it fair to Ottoline?

OTTOLINE.

_Absolument!_ So that it satisfies me to spend the best years of my life in this manner, I don't see what anybody has to complain of. _Mon Dieu!_ I am relieved to think that some of my best years are still mine to squander!

SIR RANDLE.

[_To_ PHILIP, _who is standing by the writing-table in thought, a look of disquiet on his face--persistently._] Mr. Mackworth----!

OTTOLINE.

[_Rising impatiently._] My dear Dad--my dear mother--I propose that we postpone this discussion until Mr. Mackworth's new book _has_ failed to attract the public, [_crossing to_ SIR RANDLE] and that in the meantime he sha'n't be scowled at when he presents himself in Ennismore Gardens.

[_Seating herself beside_ SIR RANDLE _and slipping her arm through his._] Dad----!

LADY FILSON.

[_To_ PHILIP.] Mr. Mackworth----!

PHILIP.

[_Rousing himself and turning to_ SIR RANDLE _and_ LADY FILSON_--abruptly._]

Look here, Sir Randle! Look here, Lady Filson! I own that this arrangement between Ottoline and me is an odd one. It was arrived at yesterday impulsively; and, in her interests, there _is_ a good deal to be said against it.

LADY FILSON.

There's nothing to be said _for_ it. Oh----!

SIR RANDLE.

[_To_ LADY FILSON.] Winifred--[_To_ PHILIP.] Well, Mr. Mackworth?

PHILIP.

Well, Sir Randle, I--I'm prepared to take a sporting chance. It may be that I am misled by the sanguine temperament of the artist, who is apt to believe that his latest production will shake the earth to its foundation. I've gammoned myself before into such a belief, but--[_resolutely_] I'll stake everything on my next book! I give you my word that if it isn't a success--an indisputable popular success--I will join you both, in all sincerity, in urging Ottoline to break with me. Come! Does that mollify you?

[_There is a short silence._ SIR RANDLE _and_ LADY FILSON _look at each other in surprise and_ OTTOLINE _stares at_ PHILIP _open-mouthed._

OTTOLINE.

Philip----!