[_Closing her eyes._] Terrible.

PHILIP.

It shows the bishop and the judge playing to the gallery, the politician adopting the methods of the cheap-jack, the d.u.c.h.ess vying with the puffing draper; it shows how even true genius submits itself to conditions that are accepted and excused as "modern," and is found elbowing and pushing in the hurly-burly. It shows how the ordinary decencies of life are sacrificed to the paragraphist, the interviewer, and the ghoul with the camera; how the home is stripped of its sanct.i.ty, blessed charity made a vehicle for display, the very grave-yard transformed into a parade ground; while the outsider looks on with a sinking of the vitals because the drumstick is beyond his reach and the bom-bom-bom is not for him! It shows----! [_Checking himself and leaving the arm-chair with a short laugh._] Oh, well, that's the setting of my story, Sir Randle! I won't inflict the details upon you.

SIR RANDLE.

Er--h'm--[_expansively_] an excellent theme, Mr. Mackworth; a most promising theme! [_To_ LADY FILSON.] Eh, Winifred?

LADY FILSON.

[_Politely._] Excellent; quite, quite excellent!

PHILIP.

[_Bowing to_ LADY FILSON _and going to_ OTTOLINE.] Thank you.

OTTOLINE.

[_To_ PHILIP, _glowingly_.] Splendid! [_Laying her hand upon his arm._]

You have purged your disgrace. [_Softly._] You may come and see me to-morrow.

PHILIP.

[_To_ OTTOLINE.] Ha, ha----!

SIR RANDLE.

[_In response to a final bow from_ PHILIP.] Good-bye.

LADY FILSON.

_Good_-bye.

[OTTOLINE _opens the glazed door and_ PHILIP _follows her into the hall. Immediately the door is shut_, LADY FILSON _hurries to_ SIR RANDLE.

SIR RANDLE.

[_In high spirits._] Winnie----!

LADY FILSON.

_That_ will never be a popular success, Randle!

SIR RANDLE.

Never. An offensive book----!

LADY FILSON.

Ho, ho, ho, ho----!

SIR RANDLE.

A grossly offensive book!

LADY FILSON.

[_Anxiously_.] He--he'll keep his word----?

SIR RANDLE.

To join us in persuading her to drop him----

LADY FILSON.

If it fails?

SIR RANDLE.

[_With conviction._] Yes. [_Walking about._] Yes. We _must_ be just. We owe it to ourselves to be just to Mr. Mackworth. He is not altogether devoid of gentlemanlike scruples.

LADY FILSON.

[_Breathlessly._] And--and _she_----?

SIR RANDLE.

I trust--I trust that my child's monstrous infatuation will have cooled down by the autumn.

LADY FILSON.

[_Supporting herself by the chair at the writing-table, her hand to her heart--exhausted._] Oh! Oh, dear!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Returning to her._] I conducted the affair with skill and tact, Winifred?

LADY FILSON.

[_Rallying._] It was masterly--[_kissing him_] masterly----

SIR RANDLE.

[_Proudly._] Ha!

[_She sits at the writing-table again and takes up her pen as_ SIR RANDLE _stalks to the door on the left._

LADY FILSON.