[_Shaking hands._] How'r you, Millicent?

MRS. ANSLOW.

[_Going to_ GREEN _and giving him her hand._] Oh, and here's that horrid Mr. Green!

GREEN.

My deah Mrs. Anslow!

MRS. QUEBEC.

Horrid! What's he done? [_Sitting in the chair by the small table._] I consider him a white-robed angel.

MRS. ANSLOW.

I sent him a long account of my accident at Roehampton and he hasn't condescended to take the slightest notice of it.

MRS. QUEBEC.

Oh, Mr. Green!

MRS. ANSLOW.

[_To_ GREEN.] It's cruel of you.

GREEN.

[_To_ MRS. ANSLOW, _twiddling his moustache._] Alack and alas, deah lady, motor collisions are not quite in my line!

MRS. ANSLOW.

You might have pa.s.sed it on to the accident man. Or you could have said that I'm to be seen riding in the Row evidently none the worse for my recent shock. _That's_ in your line.

GREEN.

Haw! I might have done that, certainly. [_Tapping his brow._] Fact is--height of the Season--perfectly distracted----

MRS. ANSLOW.

[_With the air of a martyr._] It doesn't matter. I sha'n't trouble you again. I've never been a favourite of yours----

GREEN.

[_Appealingly._] Haw! Don't----!

MRS. ANSLOW.

It's true. I was one of the few stall-holders at the Army and Navy Bazaar whose gowns you didn't describe--[_Seeing_ PHILIP _and nodding to him hazily._] How d'ye do?

ROOPE.

[_Prompting her._] Mr. Mackworth----

[MRS. ANSLOW _goes to_ PHILIP _and proffers him a limp hand._ GREEN _retreats to the fireplace and_ MRS. QUEBEC _rises and pursues him._

MRS. ANSLOW.

[_To_ PHILIP.] I think we met once at my cousins', the Fairfields'.

PHILIP.

[_Bowing._] Yes.

MRS. ANSLOW.

You write, don't you?

PHILIP.

[_Evasively._] Oh----!

ROOPE.

[_Joining them._] My dear Mrs. Anslow, Mr. Mackworth is one of the most gifted authors of the present day.

PHILIP.

[_Glaring at_ ROOPE.] Tsssh!

ROOPE.

[_To_ MRS. ANSLOW.] Get his books from your library instantly. I envy you the treat in store for you----

[NOYES _again appears._

NOYES.

Madame de Chaumie.

[OTTOLINE DE CHAUMIe _enters--a beautiful, pale, elegant young woman of three-and-thirty, with a slightly foreign air and perfect refinement of manner._ NOYES _retires.

Everybody is manifestly pleased to see_ OTTOLINE, _except_ PHILIP _who picks up a little figure from the writing-table and examines it critically._

ROOPE.

[_Hurrying to her and taking her hand._] Ah----!

OTTOLINE.

Robbie dear!