OTTOLINE.

[_Placidly, fastening her coat._] I may.

PHILIP.

[_Choking._] Oh----!

OTTOLINE.

I may, if I marry at all--and he bothers any more about me.

PHILIP.

[_Stamping up and down._] Bacon Barradell! Bacon Barradell! The wife of Bacon Barradell!

OTTOLINE.

[_With a sad smile._] He has social aims; a vulgar, pushing woman would be a serviceable partner for Sir Tim.

PHILIP.

Oh! Oh--! [_Dropping on to the settee on the left and burying his face in his hands._] Ho, well, more power to him! He can sell his bacon; I--I can't sell my books!

[_Again there is a silence, and then, putting on her left-hand glove, she goes to_ PHILIP _and stands over him compa.s.sionately._

OTTOLINE.

_Mon pauvre Philippe_, it's you, not I, who will take another view of things to-morrow. [_He makes a gesture of dissent._] Ah, come, come, come! You have never loved me as I have loved you. Unconsciously--without perceiving it--one may be half a _poseuse_; but at least I've been sincere in my love for you, and in hungering to be your wife. [_Giving him her right hand._] You're the best I've ever known, dear; by far the best I've ever known. [_He presses her hand to his brow convulsively._]

But when we had our talk in South Audley Street, how did you serve me?

You insisted on my waiting--waiting; I who had cherished your image in my mind for years! You guessed I shouldn't have patience--you almost prophesied as much; but still--I was to wait!

PHILIP.

[_Inarticulately._] Oh, Otto!

OTTOLINE.

[_Withdrawing her hand._] What did that show, Phil? It showed--as your compromise with mother and Dad showed afterwards--that the success of the book you were engaged upon came first with you; that marrying me was to be only an incident in your career; that you didn't love me sufficiently to bend your pride or vary your programme a jot. [_He gets to his feet, startled, dumbfoundered. He attempts to speak, but she checks him._] H'sh! H'sh! I'm scolding you; but, for your sake, I wouldn't have it otherwise. Now that I'm sane and cool, I wouldn't have it otherwise.

PHILIP.

[_Struggling for words--thickly._] Ottoline--Ottoline--[_his voice dying away_] I----!

OTTOLINE.

[_Taking his hands in hers._] Good-bye. Don't come downstairs with me.

Let me leave you sitting at your table, at work--at work on that incomplete chapter. We shall tumble up against one another, I dare say, at odd times, but this is the last we shall see of each other _dans l'intimite_; and I want to print on my memory the sight of you--[_pointing to the writing-table_] there--keeping your flag flying. [_Putting her arms round him--in a whisper._] Keep your flag flying, Philip!

Don't--don't sulk with your art, and be false to yourself, because a trumpery woman has fretted and disturbed you. Keep your flag flying--[_kissing him_] my--my dear hero!

[_She untwines her arms and steps back. Slowly, with his hands hanging loosely, and his chin upon his breast,_ PHILIP _pa.s.ses her and goes to the writing-table. There, dully and mechanically, he takes the unfinished page of ma.n.u.script from the portfolio, arranges it upon the blotting-pad and, seating himself at the table, picks up his pen. Very softly_ OTTOLINE _opens the vestibule door, gives_ PHILIP _a last look over her shoulder, and enters the vestibule, closing the door behind her. There is a pause, during which_ PHILIP _sits staring at his inkstand, and then the outer door slams. With an exclamation,_ PHILIP _drops his pen, leaps up, and rushes to the vestibule door._

PHILIP.

Otto! Otto! [_Loudly._] Ottoline----!

[_With his hand on the door-handle, he wavers, his eyes shifting wildly to and from the writing-table. Then, with a mighty effort, he pulls himself together, strides to the smoking-table, and loads and lights his pipe.

Puffing at his pipe fiercely, he reseats himself before his ma.n.u.script and, grabbing his pen, forces himself to write. He has written a word or two when he falters--stops--and lays his head upon his arm on the table._

PHILIP.

[_His shoulders heaving._] Oh, Otto--Otto----!

THE END