PHILIP.

[_To_ SIR RANDLE.] Sir Randle----?

SIR RANDLE.

[_To_ LADY FILSON.] Winnie----?

LADY FILSON.

[_In a softer tone._] It certainly seems to me that Mr. Mackworth's undertaking--as far as it goes----

OTTOLINE.

[_With a queer laugh._] Ha, ha, ha! As far as it goes, mother!

[_Rising, thoughtfully._] Doesn't it go a little _too_ far?

[_Contracting her brows._] It disposes of _me_ as if I were of no more account than a sawdust doll! [_To_ PHILIP.] Ah, traitor! [_In a low voice._] _Vos promesses a une femme sont sans valeur!_

PHILIP.

[_Taking her hands rea.s.suringly._] No, no----!

OTTOLINE.

[_Withdrawing her hands._] Zut! [_Moving slowly towards the glazed door._] You have acquitted yourself bravely, _mon cher Monsieur Philippe_! [_Shrugging her shoulders._] Say good-bye and let me turn you out in disgrace.

PHILIP.

[_Deprecatingly._] Ha, ha, ha! [_Going to_ LADY FILSON.] Good-bye, Lady Filson. [_She rises and shakes hands with him._] Have I bought my right of _entree_? I may ring your bell at discreet intervals till the end of the season?

LADY FILSON.

[_Stiffly._] Ottoline is her own mistress, Mr. Mackworth; [_more amiably_] but apart from her, you will receive a card from me--music--Tuesday, July the eighth.

[_He bows and she crosses to the fireplace. Then he shakes hands with_ SIR RANDLE, _who has risen and is standing in the middle of the room._

PHILIP.

[_To_ SIR RANDLE.] Good-bye.

SIR RANDLE.

[_Detaining_ PHILIP, _searchingly._] Er--pardon me--this new novel of yours, on which you place so much reliance--pray don't think me curious----

OTTOLINE.

[_Suddenly._] Ha! [_Coming to the back of the settee on the right, her eyes gleaming scornfully at_ SIR RANDLE.] Tell my father, Philip--tell him----

PHILIP.

[_Shaking his head at her and frowning._] Otto----

OTTOLINE.

Do; as you told it to me yesterday. [_Satirically._] It will help him to understand why your name has escaped him in the great journals!

SIR RANDLE.

Any confidence you may repose in me, Mr. Mackworth----

OTTOLINE.

[_Prompting_ PHILIP.] It's called--_allons! racontez donc!_----

PHILIP.

[_After a further look of protest at_ OTTOLINE--_to_ SIR RANDLE, _hesitatingly_.] It's called "The Big Drum," Sir Randle.

SIR RANDLE.

[_Elevating his eyebrows._] "The Big Drum"? [_With an innocent air._]

Military?

PHILIP.

No; social.

SIR RANDLE.

Social?

PHILIP.

[_Leaning against the arm-chair on the left of the settee on the right._] It's an attempt to portray the struggle for notoriety--for self-advertis.e.m.e.nt--we see going on around us to-day.

SIR RANDLE.

Ah, yes; lamentable!

PHILIP.

[_Deliberately, but losing himself in his subject as he proceeds._] It shows a vast crowd of men and women, sir, forcing themselves upon public attention without a shred of modesty, fighting to obtain it as if they are fighting for bread and meat. It shows how dignity and reserve have been cast aside as virtues that are antiquated and outworn, until half the world--the world that should be orderly, harmonious, beautiful--has become an arena for the exhibition of vulgar ostentation or almost superhuman egoism--a c.o.c.kpit resounding with raucous voices bellowing one against the other!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Closing his eyes._] A terrible picture!

LADY FILSON.