[_Reprovingly._] Oh----!

OTTOLINE.

I got it at Cartier's this afternoon. I meant to slip it into your serviette to-night quietly, but it's burning a hole in my pocket. [_She produces a small jewel-case and presents it to him._] Will you wear that in your tie sometimes?

PHILIP.

[_Opening the case and gazing at its contents._] Phiou! [_She leaves him, walking away to the fireplace._] What a gorgeous pearl! [_He follows her and they stand side by side, he holding the case at arm's-length admiringly, his other arm round her waist._] You shouldn't, Otto. You're incorrigible.

OTTOLINE.

[_Leaning her head against his shoulder--softly._] Phil----

PHILIP.

[_Still gazing at the scarf-pin._] To-morrow I'll buy the most beautiful silk scarf ever weaved.

OTTOLINE.

Phil, I've a feeling that it's from to-night, when I sit at your table--how sweet your flowers are; I couldn't help noticing them!--I've a feeling that it's from to-night that we really belong to each other.

PHILIP.

[_Pressing her closer to him._] Ah----!

OTTOLINE.

[_With a shiver, closing her eyes._] What has gone before has been hateful--hateful!

PHILIP.

[_Looking down upon her fondly._] Hateful?

OTTOLINE.

Until--until your book commenced to sell, at any rate. Suspense--a horrid sensation of uneasiness, mistrust--the fear that, through your foolish, hasty promise to mother and Dad, you might, after all, unite with them to cheat me out of my happiness! That's what it has been to _me_, Philip.

PHILIP.

[_Rallying her, but a little guiltily._] Ha, ha, ha! You goose! I knew exactly how events would shape, Otto; hadn't a doubt on the subject.

[_Shutting the jewel-case with a snap and a flourish._] _I_ knew----

OTTOLINE.

[_Releasing herself._] Ah, yes, I dare say I've been dreadfully stupid.

[_Shaking herself, as if to rid herself of unpleasant memories, and again leaving him._] Well! _Sans adieu!_ [_Fastening her wrap._] Get your hat and take me downstairs.

PHILIP.

Wait a moment! [_Chuckling._] Ho, ho! I'm not to be outdone altogether.

[_Pocketing her gift, he goes to the cabinet on the right and unlocks it. She watches him from the middle of the room. Presently he comes to her, carrying a little ring-case._] Take off your glove--[_pointing to her left hand_] that one. [_She removes her glove tremulously. He takes a ring from the case, tosses the case on to the writing-table, and slips the ring on her third finger._] By George, I'm in luck; blessed if it doesn't fit!

[_She surveys the ring in silence for a while; then she puts her arms round his neck and hides her face on his breast._

OTTOLINE.

[_Almost inaudibly._] Oh, Phil!

PHILIP.

[_Tenderly._] And so this is the end of the journey, Otto!

OTTOLINE.

[_In a whisper._] The end?

PHILIP.

The dreary journey in opposite directions you and I set out upon nearly eleven years ago in Paris.

OTTOLINE.

[_Quivering._] Ah----!

PHILIP.

My dear, what does it matter as long as our roads meet at last, and meet where there are clear pools to bathe our vagabond feet and sunshine to heal our sore bodies! [_She raises her head and rummages for her handkerchief._] Otto----!

OTTOLINE.

Yes?

PHILIP.

In April--eh----?

OTTOLINE.

[_Drying her eyes._] April----?

PHILIP.

You haven't forgotten the compact we entered into at Robbie Roope's?

OTTOLINE.

[_Brightening._] Ah, no!

PHILIP.