[_Uneasily._] Oh, well--perhaps--by-and-by--when we had settled down, you and I--and things had adjusted themselves----

OTTOLINE.

Yes, when you'd grown sick and weary of your new environment, and had had time to reflect on the horrid trick I'd employed to get hold of you, and had learned to despise me for it, you'd creep back to your desk and make an effort to pick up the broken threads! [_Coming to the settee on the right._] _Eh bien!_ Do you know what would happen _then_, Phil?

PHILIP.

W-w-what?

OTTOLINE.

[_Intensely._] I should _puff_ you, under the rose--quietly pull the strings--use all the influence I could rake up----

PHILIP.

No, no----

OTTOLINE.

I should. It's in my blood. I couldn't resist it. Whether you wrote as Jones, or Smith, or Robinson, you'd find Jones, Smith, or Robinson artfully puffed and paragraphed and thrust under people's noses in the papers. I'm an incurably vulgar woman, I tell you! [_s.n.a.t.c.hing at her coat--harshly._] _Ah, que je me connais; que je me connais!_

[_She fumbles for the arm-holes of her coat. He goes to her quickly and they stand holding the coat between them and looking at each other._

PHILIP.

[_After a silence._] You--you're determined?

OTTOLINE.

Determined.

PHILIP.

You--you _can't_ be!

Ottoline.

I am--I swear I am.

PHILIP.

[_After a further silence._] Then it _is_--as you said last night----?

OTTOLINE.

What did I say last night? I forget.

PHILIP.

[_In a husky voice._] _C'est fini--apres tout!_

OTTOLINE.

[_Inclining her head._] _C'est fini--apres tout._

PHILIP.

[_Bitterly._] Ho! Ho, ho, ho! [_Another pause._] So when--when April comes--we--we sha'n't----!

OTTOLINE.

[_Lowering her eyes--all gentleness again._] We sha'n't walk under the trees in the Champs-Elysees, Phil----

PHILIP.

Nor in the Allee de Longchamp--where we----

OTTOLINE.

No, nor in the Allee de Longchamp.

PHILIP.

[_Releasing her coat and thrusting his hands into his trouser-pockets._]

Somebody else'll gulp the milk at the Cafe d'Armenonville----!

OTTOLINE.

And at the Pre-Catalan----

PHILIP.

And there'll be no one to gaze sentimentally at my old windows in the Rue Soufflot----

OTTOLINE.

[_Softly._] _Quarante-trois bis._ [_Sighing._] No one.

PHILIP.

[_With a hollow laugh._] Ha, ha, ha! _C'est fini--apres tout!_

OTTOLINE.

[_Firmly._] _C'est fini--apres tout._ [_She holds out her coat to him and he helps her into it. Suddenly, while her back is turned to him, he utters a guttural cry and grips her shoulders savagely. She turns in surprise, her hand to her shoulder._] Oh, Phil----!

PHILIP.

[_Pointing at her._] I see! I see! I see the end of it! You'll marry Barradell! You'll marry the fellow who's cooling his heels down below in South Square!