Chapter I: Part 1

_The Big Drum_

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_The Big Drum_

_A COMEDY_

_In Four Acts_

_By_

_ARTHUR PINERO_

_"The desire of fame betrays an ambitious man into indecencies that lessen his reputation; he is still afraid lest any of his actions should be thrown away in private."_

ADDISON

_LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN_ _MCMXV_

_Copyright 1915, by Arthur Pinero_

_This play was Produced in London, at the St. James's Theatre, on Wednesday, September 1, 1915_

_PREFACE_

The Big Drum is published exactly as it was written, and as it was originally performed. At its first representation, however, the audience was reported to have been saddened by its "unhappy ending." Pressure was forthwith put upon me to reconcile Philip and Ottoline at the finish, and at the third performance of the play the curtain fell upon the picture, violently and crudely brought about, of Ottoline in Philip's arms.

I made the alteration against my principles and against my conscience, and yet not altogether unwillingly. For we live in depressing times; and perhaps in such times it is the first duty of a writer for the stage to make concessions to his audiences and, above everything, to try to afford them a complete, if brief, distraction from the gloom which awaits them outside the theatre.

My excuse for having at the start provided an "unhappy" ending is that I was blind enough not to regard the ultimate break between Philip and Ottoline as really unhappy for either party. On the contrary, I looked upon the separation of these two people as a fortunate occurrence for both; and I conceived it as a piece of ironic comedy which might not prove unentertaining that the falling away of Philip from his high resolves was checked by the woman he had once despised and who had at last grown to know and to despise herself.

But comedy of this order has a knack of cutting rather deeply, of ceasing, in some minds, to be comedy at all; and it may be said that this is what has happened in the present instance. Luckily it is equally true that certain matters are less painful, because less actual, in print than upon the stage. The "wicked publisher," therefore, even when bombs are dropping round him, can afford to be more independent than the theatrical manager; and for this reason I have not hesitated to ask my friend Mr. Heinemann to publish THE BIG DRUM in its original form.

ARTHUR PINERO

LONDON, _September_ 1915

_THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY_

PHILIP MACKWORTH SIR RANDLE FILSON, KNT. BERTRAM FILSON (_his son_) SIR TIMOTHY BARRADELL, BART. ROBERT ROOPE COLLINGHAM GREEN LEONARD WESTRIP (_Sir Randle's secretary_) ALFRED DUNNING (_of Sillitoe and Dunning's Private Detective Agency_) NOYES (_Mr. Roope's servant_) UNDERWOOD (_servant at Sir Randle's_) JOHN (_Mr. Mackworth's servant_) A WAITER

OTTOLINE DE CHAUMIÉ, COMTESSE DE CHAUMIÉ, _née_ FILSON LADY FILSON HON. MRS. GODFREY ANSLOW MRS. WALTER QUEBEC MISS TRACER (_Lady Filson's secretary_)

PERIOD--1913

ACT I.

ROBERT ROOPE'S FLAT IN SOUTH AUDLEY STREET. JUNE.

ACT II.

MORNING-ROOM AT SIR RANDLE FILSON'S, ENNISMORE GARDENS. THE NEXT DAY.

ACT III.

MACKWORTH'S CHAMBERS, GRAY'S INN. NOVEMBER.

ACT IV.

THE SAME PLACE. THE FOLLOWING MORNING.

_The curtain falls for a moment in the course of the First and Third Acts._

THE BIG DRUM

THE FIRST ACT

_The scene is a room, elegantly decorated, in a flat in South Audley Street. On the right, two windows give a view, through muslin curtains, of the opposite houses. In the wall facing the spectator are two doors, one on the right, the other on the left. The left-hand door opens into the room from a dimly-lighted corridor, the door on the right from the dining-room. Between the doors there is a handsome fireplace. No fire is burning and the grate is banked with flowers. When the dining-room door is opened, a sideboard and a side-table are seen in the further room, upon which are dishes of fruit, an array of ice-plates and finger-bowls, liqueurs in decanters, glasses, silver, etc._

_The pictures, the ornaments upon the mantelpiece, and the articles of furniture are few but choice. A high-backed settee stands on the right of the fireplace; near the settee is a fauteuil-stool; facing the settee is a Charles II arm-chair. On the left of the room there is a small table with a chair beside it; on the right, not far from the nearer window, are a writing-table and writing-chair. Pieces of bric-à-brac lie upon the tables, where there are also some graceful statuettes in ivory and bronze. Another high-backed settee fills the space between the windows, and in each window there is an arm-chair of the same period as the one at the fireplace._

_The street is full of sunlight._

(_Note: Throughout, "right" and "left" are the spectators' right and left, not the actor's._)

[ROBERT ROOPE, _seated at the writing-table, is sealing
a letter._ NOYES _enters at the door on the left,
followed by_ PHILIP MACKWORTH.

NOYES.

[_Announcing_ PHILIP.] Mr. Mackworth.

ROOPE.

[_A simple-looking gentleman of fifty, scrupulously attired--jumping up and shaking hands warmly with_ PHILIP _as the servant withdraws._] My dear Phil!

PHILIP.

[_A negligently--almost shabbily--dressed man in his late thirties, with a handsome but worn face._] My dear Robbie!

ROOPE.

A triumph, to have dragged you out! [_Looking at his watch._] Luncheon isn't till a quarter-to-two. I asked you for half-past-one because I want to have a quiet little jaw with you beforehand.

PHILIP.

Delightful.

ROOPE.

Er--I'd better tell you at once, old chap, whom you'll meet here to-day.

PHILIP.

Aha! Your tone presages a most distinguished guest. [_Seating himself in the chair by the small table._] Is she a _grande-duchesse_, or is he a crowned head?

ROOPE.

[_Smiling rather uneasily._] Wait. I work up to my great effect by degrees. We shall only be six. Collingham Green----

PHILIP.

[_In disgust._] Oh, lord!

ROOPE.

Now, Phil, don't be naughty.

PHILIP.

The fellow who does the Society gossip for the _Planet_!

ROOPE.

And does it remarkably neatly, in my opinion.

PHILIP.

Pouah! [_Leaning back in his chair, his legs outstretched, and spouting._] "Mrs. Trevelyan Potter, wearing a gown of yellow charmeuse exquisitely draped with chiffon, gave a dance for her niece Miss Hermione Stubbs at the Ritz Hotel last night." That sort o' stuff!

ROOPE.

[_Pained._] _Somebody_ has to supply it.

PHILIP.

"Pretty Mrs. Claud Grymes came on from the opera in her pearls, and Lady Beakly looked younger than her daughter in blue."

ROOPE.

[_Ruefully._] You don't grow a bit more reasonable, Phil; not a bit.

PHILIP.

I beg pardon. Go ahead.

ROOPE.

[_Sitting on the fauteuil-stool._] Mrs. Godfrey Anslow and Mrs. Wally Quebec. Abuse _them_.

PHILIP.

Bless their innocent hearts! _They'll_ be glad to meet Mr. Green.

ROOPE.

I trust so.

PHILIP.

[_Scowling._] A couple of pushing, advertising women.

ROOPE.

Really----!

PHILIP.

Ha, ha! Sorry. That's five, with you and me.

ROOPE.

That's five, as you justly observe. [_Clearing his throat._] H'm! H'm!

PHILIP.

The sixth? I prepare myself for your great effect.

ROOPE.

[_With an effort._] Er--Madame de Chaumié is in London, Phil.

PHILIP.

[_Sitting upright._] Madame de Chaumié! [_Disturbed._] Is _she_ coming?

ROOPE.

Y-y-yes.

PHILIP.

[_Rising._] Confound you, Robbie----!

ROOPE.

[_Hastily._] She has got rid of her house in Paris and rejoined her people. She's with them in Ennismore Gardens.

PHILIP.

Thank you, I'm aware of it. One reads of Ottoline's movements in every rag one picks up. [_Walking over to the right._] She's the biggest _chasseuse_ of the crowd.

ROOPE.

I assure you she appears very much altered.

PHILIP.

What, can the leopard change his spots!

ROOPE.

Her family may still bang the big drum occasionally, and give it an extra whack on _her_ account; but Ottoline herself----

PHILIP.

Faugh! [_Returning to_ ROOPE.] Why the devil have you done this?

ROOPE.

[_Feebly._] I confess, in the hope of bringing about a reconciliation.

PHILIP.

You--you good-natured old meddler. [_Quickly._] Does she expect to find me here?

ROOPE.

No.

PHILIP.

[_Making for the door on the left._] I'll bolt, then.

ROOPE.

[_Rising and seizing him._] You shall do nothing of the kind. [_Forcing him down upon the fauteuil-stool._] You'll upset my luncheon-table! [_Tidying himself._] You're most inconsiderate; you are positively. And you've disarranged my necktie.

PHILIP.

[_In a low voice._] How is she looking, Robbie?

ROOPE.

Brilliant. [_Putting his necktie in order._] Is that straight? Brilliant.

PHILIP.

[_Gazing into space._] Ten years ago, old man!

ROOPE.

Quite.

PHILIP.

It was at her father and mother's, in Paris, that I made _your_ acquaintance. Recollect?

ROOPE.

Perfectly; in the Avenue Montaigne. I had a flat in the Palais-Royal at the time.

PHILIP.

[_Scornfully._] You were one of the smart set. It was worth their while to get hold of _you_.

ROOPE.

My dear Phil, do be moderately fair. _You_ weren't in the smart set.

PHILIP.

No; I was trying my hand at journalism in those days. Dreadful trade! I was Paris correspondent to the _Whitehall Gazette_. That's why _I_ was favoured. [_Abruptly._] Robbie----

ROOPE.

Hey?

PHILIP.

You'll scarcely credit it. One evening, while I was at work, Ottoline turned up with her maid at my lodgings in the Rue Soufflot, sent the maid out of the room, and proposed that I should "mention" her family in my letters to the _Whitehall_.

ROOPE.

Mention them?

PHILIP.

Drag in allusions to 'em constantly--their entertainments and so forth; boom them, in fact.

ROOPE.

Was that the cause of the--the final----?

PHILIP.

[_Nodding._] Yes. The following week her engagement to de Chaumié was announced.

ROOPE.

[_After a slight pause._] Well, in spite of all this, I'm convinced she was genuinely attached to you, Phil--as fond of you as you were of her.

PHILIP.

[_Resting his head on his hands._] Oh, shut up!

ROOPE.

Anyhow, here's an opportunity of testing it, dear excellent friend. She's been a widow twelve months; you need have no delicacy on that score.

PHILIP.

[_Looking up._] Why, do you suggest----?

ROOPE.

Certainly; and without delay. I hear there's a shoal of men after her, including Tim Barradell.

PHILIP.

[_With a grim smile._] "Bacon" Barradell?

ROOPE.

[_Assentingly._] They say Sir Timothy's in constant attendance.

PHILIP.

And what chance, do you imagine, would a poor literary cove stand against a real live baronet--and the largest bacon-curer in Ireland?

ROOPE.

[_Rubbing his chin._] You never know. Women are romantic creatures. She _might_ prefer the author of those absorbing works of fiction whose pages often wrap up Tim Barradell's rashers.

PHILIP.

[_Rising._] Ha, ha, ha! [_Giving himself a shake._] Even so it can't be done, Robbie; though I'm grateful to you for your amiable little plot. [_Walking about._] Heavens above, if Ottoline married me, she'd be puffing my wares on the sly before the honeymoon was half over!

ROOPE.

And a jolly good job too. [_Moving to the left, peevishly._] The truth is, my dear Phil, you're a crank--an absolute crank--on the subject of the--ah--the natural desire of some people to keep themselves in the public eye. Mercy on us, if it comes to that, _I'm_ an advertiser!

PHILIP.

If it comes to that, you miserable old sinner, you _are_.

ROOPE.

I admit it, frankly. I own it gratifies me exceedingly to see my little dinner-parties and tea-parties, here or at my club, chronicled in the press. And it gratifies my friends also. Many of them wouldn't honour me at all if my list of guests wasn't in the fashionable intelligence next morning.

PHILIP.

Oh----!

ROOPE.

Yes, you may roar. I declare I shudder to think of the difference it 'ud make to me socially if I didn't advertise.

PHILIP.

Robbie, I blush for you.

ROOPE.

Tosh! It's an advertising age.

PHILIP.

[_Stalking to the fireplace._] It's a beastly vulgar age.

ROOPE.

It's the age I happen to live in, and I accommodate myself to it. [_Pacing the room as he warms to his theme._] And if it's necessary for a private individual such as myself to advertise, as I maintain it is, how much more necessary is it for _you_ to do so--a novelist, a poet, a would-be playwright, a man with something to sell! Dash it, they've got to advertise soap, and soap's essential! Why not literature, which _isn't_? And yet you won't find the name of Mr. Philip Mackworth in the papers from one year's end to another, except in a scrubby criticism now and again.

PHILIP.

[_Calmly._] Excuse me, there are the publisher's announcements.

ROOPE.

Publishers' announcements! I'm not speaking of the _regular_ advertising columns. What I want to see are paragraphs concerning you mixed up with the news of the day, information about you and your habits, interviews with you, letters from you on every conceivable topic----

PHILIP.

[_Grinning._] _Do_ you!

ROOPE.

[_Joining_ PHILIP.] Oh, my dear Phil, I entreat you, feed the papers! It isn't as if you hadn't talent; you _have_. Advertising _minus_ talent goes a long way; advertising _plus_ talent is irresistible. Feed the papers. The more you do for them, the more they'll do for you. _Quid pro quo._ To the advertiser shall advertisement be given. Newspaper men are the nicest chaps in the world. Feed them gratis with bright and amusin' "copy," as you term it, and they'll love and protect you for ever.

PHILIP.

Not for ever, Robbie. Whom the press loves die young.

ROOPE.

It's fickle, you mean--some day it'll turn and rend you? Perhaps. Still, if you make hay while the sun shines----

PHILIP.

The sun! You don't call _that_ the sun! [_Disdainfully._] P'ssh!

ROOPE.

[_Leaving him._] Oh, I've no patience with you! [_Spluttering._] Upon my word, your hatred of publicity is--is--is--is morbid. It's worse than morbid--it's Victorian. [_Sitting in the chair by the small table._] There! I can't say anything severer.

PHILIP.

[_Advancing._] Yes, but wait a moment, Robbie. Who says I have a hatred of publicity? _I_ haven't said anything so absurd. Don't I write for the public?

ROOPE.

Exactly!

PHILIP.

[_Standing near_ ROOPE.] I have no dislike for publicity--for fame. By George, sir, I covet it, if I can win it honestly and decently!

ROOPE.

[_Shrugging his shoulders._] Ah----!

PHILIP.

And I humble myself before the men and women of my craft--and they are many--who succeed in winning it in that fashion, or who are content to remain obscure. But for the rest--the hustlers of the pen, the seekers after mere blatant applause, the pickers-up of cheap popularity--I've a profound contempt for them and their methods.

ROOPE.

You can't deny the ability of some of 'em.

PHILIP.

Deny it! Of course I don't deny it. But no amount of ability, of genius if you will, absolves the follower of any art from the obligation of conducting himself as a modest gentleman----

ROOPE.

Ah, there's where you're so hopelessly Victorian and out o' date!

PHILIP.

Well, that's my creed; and, whether I've talent or not, I'd rather snuff out, when my time comes, neglected and a pauper than go back on it. [_Walking away and pacing the room._] Oh, but I'm not discouraged, my dear Robbie--not a scrap! I'm not discouraged, though you do regard me as a dismal failure.

ROOPE.

[_Deprecatingly._] No, no!

PHILIP.

I shall collar the great public yet. You mark me, I shall collar 'em yet, and without stooping to the tricks and devices you advocate! [_Returning to_ ROOPE.] Robbie----

ROOPE.

[_Rising._] Hey?

PHILIP.

[_Laying his hands on_ ROOPE_'s shoulders._] If my next book--my autumn book--isn't a mighty go, I--I'll eat my hat.

ROOPE.

[_Sadly._] Dear excellent friend, perhaps you'll be obliged to, for nourishment.

PHILIP.

Ha, ha, ha! [_Taking_ ROOPE_'s arm._] Oddly enough--oddly enough, the story deals with the very subject we've been discussing.

ROOPE.

[_Without enthusiasm._] Indeed?

PHILIP.

Yes. You hit on the title a few minutes ago.

ROOPE.

Really?

PHILIP.

When you were talking of Ottoline and her people. [_Dropping his voice._] "The Big Drum."

ROOPE.

[_Thoughtfully._] C-c-capital!

PHILIP.

Titterton, my new publisher, is tremendously taken with the scheme of the thing--keen as mustard about it.

ROOPE.

Er--pardon me, Phil----

PHILIP.

Eh?

ROOPE.

[_Fingering the lapel of_ PHILIP's _coat._] I say, old man, you wouldn't be guilty of the deplorably bad taste of putting _me_ into it, would you?

PHILIP.

[_Slapping him on the back._] Ha, ha! My dear Robbie, half the polite world is in it. Don't tell me you wish to be left out in the cold!

ROOPE.

[_Thoroughly alarmed._] Dear excellent friend----!

[NOYES _enters again at the door on the left, preceding_
COLLINGHAM GREEN.

NOYES.

[_Announcing_ GREEN, _and then retiring._] Mr. Collingham Green.

GREEN.

[_A gaily-dressed, genial soul, with a flower in his button-hole, a monocle, a waxed moustache, and a skilful arrangement of a sparse head of hair--shaking hands with_ ROOPE.] How are you, my deah fellow?

ROOPE.

My dear Colly, delighted to see you.

GREEN.

An awful scramble to get heah. I was afraid I shouldn't be able to manage it.

ROOPE.

You'd have broken our hearts if you hadn't. You know Mackworth?

GREEN.

_And_ his charming works. [_Shaking hands with_ PHILIP.] Haven't met you for evah so long.

PHILIP.

How d'ye do?

GREEN.

Ouf! I must sit down. [_Sitting on the fauteuil-stool and taking off a pair of delicately tinted gloves._] The Season is killing me. I'm shaw I sha'n't last till Goodwood, Robbie.

ROOPE.

Yes, it's a shockin' rush, isn't it!

GREEN.

Haw! You only _fancy_ you're rushed. Your life is a rest-cure compared with mine. You've no conception, either of you, what my days are just now.

PHILIP.

[_Finding himself addressed._] Exhausting, no doubt.

GREEN.

Take to-day, for example. I was in my bath at half-past-seven----

ROOPE.

Half-past-seven!

GREEN.

Though I wasn't in bed till two this morning. At eight I had a cup of coffee and a piece of dry toast, and skimmed the papers. From eight-thirty till ten I dictated a special article on our modern English hostesses--"The Hostesses of England: Is Hospitality Declining?", a question I answer in the negative----

ROOPE.

[_In a murmur._] Quite right.

GREEN.

At ten o'clock, a man from Clapp and Beazley's with some patterns of socks and underwear. Disposed of _him_, dressed, and by a quarter-to-eleven I was in the Park. Strolled up and down with Lady Ventnor and Sir Hill Birch and saw everybody there was to be seen. I nevah make a single note; my memory's marvellous. Left the Park at twelve and took a taxi to inquire after Lord Harrogate, Charlie Sievewright, and old Lady Dorcas Newnham. I'm not boring you?

ROOPE.

Boring us!

GREEN.

Lady Dorcas caught sight of me from her window and hailed me in. I sat with her for twenty minutes--"Greenie" she always calls me--[_mimicking_] "Now, Greenie, what's the noos?" Haw, haw, haw! I walked away from Lady Dorcas's, and was in Upper Grosvenor Street punctually at one. [_To_ ROOPE.] There's been a meeting at the Baroness Van der Meer's to-day, you know, over this fête at the Albert Hall.

ROOPE.

Ah, yes; I'm to be in Lady Freddy Hoyle's Plantagenet group. I'm a knight in attendance on King John.

GREEN.

I had a short private chat with the Baroness, and followed her into the drawing-room. They were still at it when I sneaked out at a side door, and heah I am.

ROOPE.

Extraordinary! Hey, Phil?

PHILIP.

[_Leaning against the chair by the writing-table, dryly._] Most interesting.

GREEN.

[_To_ PHILIP, _rising._] I lunch with Roope--[_to_ ROOPE] you'll have to let me off at three, Robbie--and then my grind begins again.

ROOPE.

[_Throwing up his hands in admiration._] Oh!

GREEN.

Horse Show, two musical parties--Lady Godalming's and Mrs. Reggie Mosenstein's; then home and more dictation to my secretary. Dine with Sir Patrick and Lady Logan at the Carlton, and then to the Opera with my spy-glass. From Covent Garden I dash down to Fleet Street, write my late stuff, and my day's done--unless I've strength left for Lady Ronaldshaw's dance and a crush at Mrs. Hume-Cutler's.

ROOPE.

[_Repeating his former action._] Oh! Oh!

[NOYES _reappears._

NOYES.

Mrs. Walter Quebec.

[MRS. WALTER QUEBEC _enters and_ NOYES _withdraws._

ROOPE.

[_Taking_ MRS. QUEBEC's _hand._] My dear Mrs. Wally, how _are_ you?

MRS. QUEBEC.

[_A bright, energetic, fairly young lady._] How'r you, Robbie? Walter is so grieved; he's lunching at the Auto with Tony Baxter. He did try to wriggle out of it--[_Discovering_ GREEN _and going to him with her hand extended._] Oh, I _am_ glad! You're just the man I'm dying to see.

GREEN.

[_Kissing her hand._] Haw----!

MRS. QUEBEC.

Lady Skewes and I are getting up a concert in aid of the poor sufferers from the earthquake in--what's the name of the place?--I forget--Lady Skewes knows it--and we want you to say a lot about us in your darling paper. Only distinguished amateurs; that's where the novelty comes in. Lady Skewes is going to play the violin, if she can pull herself together--she hasn't played for centuries--[_seeing_ PHILIP, _advancing, and shaking hands with him casually_] how d'ye do?--[_to_ GREEN] and _I've_ promised to sing.

GREEN.

Splendid.

ROOPE.

But how captivating!

MRS. QUEBEC.

[_To_ GREEN.] I've sung so seldom since my marriage, and they've had _such_ a difficulty to lure me out of my tiny wee shell. Would you mind dwelling on that a little?

GREEN.

Of course not; anything I can do, deah lady----

MRS. QUEBEC.

That's too utterly sweet of you. You shall have full particulars to-morrow. I wouldn't bother you, but it's charity, isn't it? Oh, and there's something else I want you to be kind over----!

[NOYES _returns._

NOYES.

Mrs. Godfrey Anslow.

[_The_ HON. MRS. GODFREY ANSLOW _enters and_ NOYES _goes
out again._

MRS. ANSLOW.

[_A tall, languishing woman with a toneless drawl--to_ ROOPE.] Am I late?

ROOPE.

[_Pressing her hand._] Not a second, my _very_ dear friend.

MRS. ANSLOW.

Can't help it if I am. My car got smashed up last week in Roehampton Lane, and the motor people have lent me the original ark, on wheels. [MRS. QUEBEC _comes to her._] Hullo, Esmé!

MRS. QUEBEC.

[_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 passed 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 Chaumié.

[OTTOLINE DE CHAUMIÉ _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!

MRS. QUEBEC.

[_Going to_ OTTOLINE.] Oh! [_They embrace._] This is lovely!

OTTOLINE.

[_To_ MRS. ANSLOW, _who comes to her._] Millicent----! [_To_ GREEN, _who bustles forward and kisses her hand._] How do you do?

MRS. QUEBEC.

[_To_ OTTOLINE.] You didn't stay long at the Railtons' last night, Ottoline.

OTTOLINE.

I had a headache--mother was so vexed with me----

MRS. ANSLOW.

Headache or not, you looked divine.

MRS. QUEBEC.

A vision!

GREEN.

[_To_ OTTOLINE.] Haw! I hope you saw the remarks about you in this morning's papah, deah lady.

OTTOLINE.

[_To_ GREEN.] For shame, Mr. Green! Have you been flattering me again?

GREEN.

Haw, haw, haw, haw----!

ROOPE.

[_Standing near_ PHILIP.] Madame de Chaumié----

OTTOLINE.

[_Advancing._] Yes?

ROOPE.

Here's an old friend of ours whom you haven't met for years--Mackworth.

[_She starts and then waits, rooted, for_ PHILIP's
_approach. He replaces the figure carefully and comes to
her, and their hands touch._ ROOPE _leaves them and
engages the others in conversation._

OTTOLINE.

[_To_ PHILIP, _in a low voice, her eyes sparkling._] I had no idea I was to have this pleasure.

PHILIP.

[_Gently, but without exceeding the bounds of mere courtesy._] Robbie excels in surprises; he has been almost equally reserved with me. Are you very well?

OTTOLINE.

Very. And you?

PHILIP.

Very. And Sir Randle and Lady Filson?

OTTOLINE.

Quite well--and my brother Bertram. [_Chilled._] Perhaps you've heard that I am making my home with them now in London, permanently--that I've left Paris?

PHILIP.

Robbie--and the newspapers--have told me. It's late in the day to do it--may I offer you my sympathy?

OTTOLINE.

[_With a stately inclination of the head._] Thank you. And I my congratulations on your success?

PHILIP.

[_Quietly._] Success!

OTTOLINE.

[_Comprehending._] Ah? _Le public est si bête._ I've read every line you've written, I believe. [_He bows._] I--I have felt proud to think that we were once--that we were once--not _des inconnus_.

[_He bows again, and there is silence between them. The
dining-room door opens and_ NOYES _presents himself. A
waiter is seen in the dining-room, standing at the side
table._

NOYES.

[_To_ ROOPE.] Lunch is served, sir.

ROOPE.

[_To everybody._] Come along! Come along, dear excellent friends! [OTTOLINE _smiles graciously at_ PHILIP _and turns from him._] Lead the way, dear Mrs. Anslow. Madame de Chaumié! [MRS. ANSLOW _slips her arm through_ OTTOLINE.] You both sit opposite the fireplace. Dear Mrs. Wally! Come along, my dear Phil! [_Putting an arm round_ GREEN_'s shoulder._] Colly----!

[_They all move into the dining-room, and the curtain
falls. It rises again almost immediately. A chair,
withdrawn from the further window, is now beside the
fauteuil-stool, on its right; and the chair which was
close to the small table has been pulled out into the
room, and faces the fauteuil-stool at some little
distance from it. The doors are closed._ MRS. ANSLOW
_and_ MRS. QUEBEC _are taking their departure. The
former is saying good-bye to_ OTTOLINE, _who is standing
before the fireplace; the latter is talking to_ ROOPE
_near the door on the left. On the right is_ PHILIP,
_ready to receive his share of the adieux._

MRS. ANSLOW.

[_Shaking hands with_ OTTOLINE.] Good-bye. You _might_ come on to Olympia; my sister-in-law's box holds six.

OTTOLINE.

Sorry. I really am full up this afternoon. [MRS. QUEBEC _comes to_ OTTOLINE _as_ MRS. ANSLOW _goes to_ PHILIP. ROOPE _opens the door on the left and remains there, waiting to escort the ladies to the outer door._] Can I give you a lift anywhere, Esmé?

MRS. QUEBEC.

Thanks; Millicent's taking me along with her to the Horse Show.

MRS. ANSLOW.

[_Shaking hands with_ PHILIP.] Very pleased to meet you again. Ever see anything now of the Fairfields?

PHILIP.

Never.

MRS. ANSLOW.

No loss. I believe dear old Eustace is off his head.

PHILIP.

Possibly.

MRS. ANSLOW.

[_Tolerantly._] But then, so many people are off their heads, aren't they?

PHILIP.

A great many.

MRS. ANSLOW.

[_Bestowing a parting nod upon_ PHILIP _and crossing to the open door._] Sha'n't wait, Esmé. It's a month's journey to Hammersmith in the ark.

MRS. QUEBEC.

[_Kissing_ OTTOLINE.] Good-bye.

MRS. ANSLOW.

[_To_ ROOPE.] Charming lunch. Enjoyed myself enormously.

MRS. QUEBEC.

[_Shaking hands with_ PHILIP _hastily._] Good-bye, Mr. Mackworth.

PHILIP.

Good-bye.

[ROOPE _and_ MRS. ANSLOW _have disappeared;_ MRS. QUEBEC
_follows them._ OTTOLINE _approaches_ PHILIP _slowly._

OTTOLINE.

[_Giving him her hand._] Good-bye.

PHILIP.

[_Bending over it formally._] Good-bye.

OTTOLINE.

We--we're in Ennismore Gardens, you know. [_He acknowledges the information by a stiff bow. She interests herself in her glove-buttons._] You--you've chosen to drop out of my--out of our lives so completely that I hardly like to ask you to come and see us.

PHILIP.

[_Constrainedly._] You are very good; but I--I don't go about much in these days, and I'm afraid----

OTTOLINE.

[_Quickly._] Oh, I'm sure you're wise. [_Drawing herself erect._] A writer shouldn't give up to society what is meant for mankind, should he?

[_She passes him distantly, to leave the room, and he
suddenly grips her shoulder._

PHILIP.

Ottoline----!

[_By a mutual impulse, they glance swiftly at the open
door, and then she throws herself into his arms._

OTTOLINE.

Philip----!

[_Just as swiftly, they separate; and a moment
afterwards_ ROOPE _returns, rubbing his hands cheerily._

ROOPE.

[_Advancing, but not shutting the door._] There! Now we're by ourselves! [_To_ OTTOLINE.] You're not running away?

OTTOLINE.

[_Confused._] Oh, I--I----

ROOPE.

It's only half-past-three. Why don't you and Mackworth sit down and have a little talk together? [_To_ PHILIP, _who has strolled to the further window and is looking into the street._] You're in no hurry, Phil?

PHILIP.

Not in the least.

ROOPE.

[_Crossing to the writing-table._] I'll finish answering my letters; I sha'n't have a moment later on. [_Gathering up his correspondence._] You won't disturb me; I'll polish 'em off in another room. [_To_ OTTOLINE.] Are you goin' to Lady Paulton's by-and-by, by any chance?

OTTOLINE.

[_Again at the fireplace, her back to_ ROOPE _and_ PHILIP.] And Mrs. Jack Cathcart's--and Mrs. Le Roy's----

ROOPE.

You shall take me to Lowndes Square, if you will. [_Recrossing._] Sha'n't be more than ten minutes. [_At the door._] Ten minutes, dear excellent friends. A quarter-of-an-hour at the outside.

[_He vanishes, closing the door. There is a pause, and
then_ PHILIP _and_ OTTOLINE _turn to one another and he
goes to her._

OTTOLINE.

[_Her hands in his, breathlessly._] You _are_ glad to see me, then! [_Laughing shyly._] Ha, ha! You _are_ glad!

PHILIP.

[_Tenderly._] Yes.

OTTOLINE.

You brute, Phil, to make me behave in such an undignified way!

PHILIP.

If there's any question of dignity, what on earth has become of mine? I was the first to break down.

OTTOLINE.

To break down! Why should you try to treat me so freezingly? You can't be angry with me still, after all these years! _C'est pas possible!_

PHILIP.

It was stupid of me to attempt to hide my feelings. [_Pressing her hand to his lips._] But, my dear Otto--my dear girl--where's the use of our coming into each other's lives again?

OTTOLINE.

The use--? Why _shouldn't_ we be again as we were in the old Paris days--[_embarrassed_] well, not quite, perhaps----?

PHILIP.

[_Smiling._] Oh, of course, if you command it, I am ready to buy some smart clothes, and fish for opportunities of meeting you occasionally on a crowded staircase or in a hot supper-room. But--as for anything else----

OTTOLINE.

[_Slowly withdrawing her hands and putting them behind her._] As for--anything else----?

PHILIP.

I repeat--_cui bono_? [_Regarding her kindly but penetratingly._] What would be the result of your reviving a friendship with an ill-tempered, intolerant person who would be just as capable to-morrow of turning upon you like a savage----?

OTTOLINE.

Ah, you _are_ still angry with me! [_With a change of tone._] As you did that evening, for instance, when I came with Nannette to your shabby little den in the Rue Soufflot----

PHILIP.

Precisely.

OTTOLINE.

[_Walking away to the front of the fauteuil-stool._] To beg you to _prôner_ my father and mother in the journal you were writing for--what was the name of it?----

PHILIP.

[_Following her._] _The Whitehall Gazette._

OTTOLINE.

And you were polite enough to tell me that my cravings and ideals were low, pitiful, ignoble!

PHILIP.

[_Regretfully._] You remember?

OTTOLINE.

[_Facing him._] As clearly as you do, my friend. [_Laying her hand upon his arm, melting._] Besides, they were true--those words--hideously true--as were many other sharp ones you shot at me in Paris. [_Turning from him._] Low--pitiful--ignoble----!

PHILIP.

Otto----!

[_She seats herself in the chair by the fauteuil-stool
and motions him to sit by her. He does so._

OTTOLINE.

Yes, they were true; but they are true of me no longer. I am greatly changed, Philip.

PHILIP.

[_Eyeing her._] You are more beautiful than ever.

OTTOLINE.

H'sh!--changed in my character, disposition, view of things. Life has gone sadly with me since we parted.

PHILIP.

Indeed? I--I'm grieved.

OTTOLINE.

My marriage was an utter failure. You heard?

PHILIP.

[_Shaking his head._] No.

OTTOLINE.

No? [_Smiling faintly._] I thought _everybody_ hears when a marriage is a failure. [_Mournfully._] The fact remains; it was a terrible mistake. Poor Lucien! I don't blame him for my nine years of unhappiness. I engaged myself to him in a hurry--out of pique----

PHILIP.

Pique?

OTTOLINE.

Within a few hours of that fatal visit of mine to your lodgings. [_Looking at him significantly._] It was _that_ that drove me to it.

PHILIP.

[_Staring at her._] _That----!_

OTTOLINE.

[_Simply._] Yes, Phil.

PHILIP.

Otto!

OTTOLINE.

[_Plucking at the arm of her chair._] You see--you see, notwithstanding the vulgarity of my mind, I had a deep respect for you. Even then there were wholesome signs in me! [_Shrugging her shoulders plaintively._] Whether I should have ended by obeying my better instincts, and accepting you, I can't say. I believe I should. I--I believe I should. At any rate, I had already begun to chafe under the consciousness that, while you loved me, you had no esteem for me.

PHILIP.

[_Remorsefully._] My dear!

OTTOLINE.

[_Raising her head._] That scene between us in the Rue Soufflot set my blood on fire. To have a request refused me was sufficiently mortifying; but to be whipped, scourged, scarified, into the bargain--! I flew down your stairs after I left you, and drove home, scorching with indignation; and next morning I sent for Lucien--a blind adorer!--and promised to be his wife. [_Leaning back._] _Comprenez-vous, maintenant?_ Solely to hurt _you_; to hurt you, the one man among my acquaintances whom I--admired!

[_She searches for her handkerchief. He rises and goes
to the mantelpiece and stares at the flowers in the
grate._

PHILIP.

[_Almost inaudibly._] Oh, Otto!

OTTOLINE.

[_Wiping a tear from her cheek._] Heigh, dear me! Whenever I go over the past, and that's not seldom, I can't help thinking you might have been a little gentler with me--a girl of three-and-twenty--and have made allowances. [_Blowing her nose._] What was Dad before he went out to Buenos Aires with his wife and children; only a junior partner in a small concern in the City! Wasn't it natural that, when he came back to Europe, prosperous but a nobody, he should be eager to elbow himself into a respectable social position, and that his belongings should have caught the fever?

PHILIP.

[_Wretchedly._] Yes--yes----

OTTOLINE.

[_Rising and wandering to the writing-table._] First we descended upon Paris--you know; but Paris didn't respond very satisfactorily. Plenty of smart men flocked round us--_la belle Mademoiselle Filson_ drew _them_ to the Avenue Montaigne!----

PHILIP.

[_Under his breath, turning._] T'scht!

OTTOLINE.

But the women were either hopelessly _bourgeoises_ or slightly _déclassée_. [_Inspecting some of the pieces of bric-à-brac upon the table._] Which decided us to attack London--and induced me to pay my call on you in the Rue Soufflot----

PHILIP.

I understand.

OTTOLINE.

To coax you to herald us in your weekly _causeries_. [_Wincing._] Horrible of me, _that_ was; horrible, horrible, horrible! [_Replacing an object upon the table and moving to the other side of the room._] However, I wasn't destined to share the earliest of the London triumphs. [_Bitterly._] Mine awaited me in Paris, and at Vaudemont-Baudricourt, as the Comtesse de Chaumié! [_Shivering._] Ugh-h-h-h----!

[_She is about to sit in the chair on the left when he
comes to her impulsively and restrains her._

PHILIP.

My poor girl----!

OTTOLINE.

[_With abandon._] Ah----!

PHILIP.

My poor dear girl!

OTTOLINE.

It's a relief to me to open my heart to you, Philip. [_He leads her to the fauteuil-stool._] Robbie won't interrupt us yet awhile, will he?

PHILIP.

We'll kick him out if he does. [_They sit, close together, upon the fauteuil-stool._] Oh, but he won't! This is a deep-laid plot of the old chap's----

OTTOLINE.

Plot?

PHILIP.

To invite us here to-day, you and me, to--to----

OTTOLINE.

_Amener un rapprochement?_

PHILIP.

Exactly.

OTTOLINE.

[_Softly._] Ha, ha! Dear old Robbie! [_He laughs with her._] Dear, dear old Robbie! [_Her laughter dies out, leaving her with a serious, appealing face._] Phil----

PHILIP.

Eh?

OTTOLINE.

Your sneer--your sneer about me and the papers----

PHILIP.

Sneer?

OTTOLINE.

I detected it. Almost the first thing you said to me when I arrived was that you'd been gathering news of me lately from the papers!

PHILIP.

[_Gently._] Forgive me.

OTTOLINE.

It's been none of my doing; I've finished with _le snobbisme_ entirely. [_Pleadingly._] You don't doubt me?

PHILIP.

[_Patting her hand._] No--no.

OTTOLINE.

Nowadays I detest coming across my name in print. But my people--[_with a little_ moue] they will persist in----!

PHILIP.

Beating the big drum?

OTTOLINE.

Ha! [_Brushing her hair from her brow fretfully._] Oh! Oh, Phil, it was blindness on my part to return to them--sheer blindness!

PHILIP.

Blindness?

OTTOLINE.

They've been urging me to do it ever since my husband's death; so I had ample time to consider the step. But I didn't realize, till I'd settled down in Ennismore Gardens, how thoroughly I----

PHILIP.

[_Finding she doesn't continue._] How thoroughly----?

OTTOLINE.

How thoroughly I've grown away from them--ceased to be one of them. [_Stamping her foot._] Oh, I know I'm ungrateful; and that they're proud of me, and pet and spoil me; [_contracting her shoulder-blades_] but they make my flesh feel quite raw--mother, Dad, and my brother Bertram! Their intense satisfaction with themselves, and everything appertaining to them, irritates me to such a pitch that I'm often obliged to rush out of the room to stop myself from being rude. [_Impetuously._] And then to have to watch Dad and mother still pushing, scheming, intriguing; always with the affectation of despising _réclame_, yet doing nothing--not the most simple act--without a careful eye to it! Years ago, as I've said, there was an intelligible motive for our paltry ambitions; but now, when they have _forcé les portes_ and can afford to be sincere and independent----! [_Checking herself._] But I oughtn't to speak of my folks like this, ought I, even to you whom I can trust! [_Penitently._] It's awfully wrong of me. I--I beg your pardon.

PHILIP.

[_After a short silence._] What do you intend to do, then, Otto, ultimately--re-establish yourself in Paris?

OTTOLINE.

[_Drearily._] Paris! Is Paris so full of cheerful memories for me, do you suppose, that I should cling to it!

PHILIP.

[_Soothingly._] Oh, come----!

OTTOLINE.

I travelled about for some months after I became a widow, and when I saw Paris again--! [_Starting up as if to rid herself of disagreeable sensations._] No, my one great desire is to escape from it all, Phil--[_moving to the chair on the left_] to escape----!

PHILIP.

[_Rising._] Escape?

OTTOLINE.

To alter the whole current of my life, if it's possible, [_sinking into the chair_] and to breathe some fresh air! [_Fanning herself with her hand._] Phew-w-w-w!

PHILIP.

H'm! [_Approaching her and looking down upon her._] According to report, Ottoline, you'd have very little difficulty in--escaping.

OTTOLINE.

[_Glancing up at him._] Report?

PHILIP.

Rumour has it that there are at least a dozen ardent admirers at your feet, each with a wedding-ring in his waistcoat-pocket.

OTTOLINE.

[_Reproachfully, her eyes meeting his._] Why, have you been listening to tittle-tattle as well as studying newspaper paragraphs! [_He bows, good-humouredly._] My dear Philip, allowing for exaggeration, granting that my _soupirants_ number _half_-a-dozen, which of them would enable me to fill my lungs with fresh air? Who _are_ they, these enterprising men----?

PHILIP.

[_Leaving her abruptly and going to the mantelpiece._] Oh, pray don't ask _me_! I don't know who the fellows are--except--they say--Sir Timothy Barradell----

OTTOLINE.

[_Lightly but softly._] Sir Timothy! Sir Timothy has only just succeeded in fighting his way into the world I'm sick and tired of! [_Shaking her head._] Poor Sir Tim! [_Pityingly._] Ha, ha, ha, ha!

PHILIP.

[_His back towards her._] Otto----

OTTOLINE.

Yes?

PHILIP.

What sort of world would you be willing to exchange for your present one, my dear?

OTTOLINE.

What sort----?

PHILIP.

What sort--spiritual and material?

OTTOLINE.

[_Resting her elbow upon the arm of her chair and her chin upon her hand, musingly._] Oh, I believe any world would content me that's totally different from the world I've lived in so long; any world that isn't flat and stale and stifling; that isn't made up of shams, and petty aims and appetites; any world that--well, such a world as you used to picture, Phil, when you preached your gospel to a selfish, common girl under the chestnuts in the Allée de Longchamp and the Champs-Elysées! [_Half laughing, half sighing._] Ha, la, la, la!

[_Again there is a pause, and then he walks to the
further window and gazes into the street once more._

PHILIP.

[_In a low voice._] Ten years ago, Otto!

OTTOLINE.

Ten years ago!

PHILIP.

[_Partly in jest, partly seriously._] Do the buds still sprout on those trees in the Allée de Longchamp and the Champs-Elysées, can you tell me?

OTTOLINE.

[_Falling in with his humour._] Ha, ha! Every spring, _cher ami_, regularly.

PHILIP.

And the milk at the Café d'Armenonville and the Pré-Catelan--is it still rich and delectable?

OTTOLINE.

To the young, I assume; scarcely to the aged widow----!

PHILIP.

Or the grey-haired scribbler! Ha, ha, ha, ha!

OTTOLINE.

Ha, ha, ha, ha----!

[_He turns and advances to her slowly, looking at her
fixedly and earnestly._

PHILIP.

Ottoline--I wonder whether you'd care to walk under those trees with me again, for sentiment's sake, some fine day in the future----!

OTTOLINE.

[_Staring at him._] C-care----?

PHILIP.

And if you would, whether I ought to tempt you to risk it!

OTTOLINE.

[_Rising, smiling but discomposed._] To--to risk finding that _le lait n'est pas crémeux_, do you mean?

PHILIP.

[_Tenderly._] To risk even that. [_Drawing nearer to her._] Otto----!

OTTOLINE.

I--I should be delighted--if--if ever----

PHILIP.

No, no; not as friends, Otto--save in the best sense----

OTTOLINE.

[_Faintly._] I--I don't----

PHILIP.

As husband and wife. [_She stands quite still._] Husband and wife! Some day when I've achieved a solid success; when I've captured the great public, and can come to you, not as a poor, struggling writer, but holding my prizes in both hands!

OTTOLINE.

[_Putting her hand to her forehead._] It--it's not too late, is it?

PHILIP.

[_Recoiling._] Too late--for me--to be successful?

OTTOLINE.

[_Passionately._] Oh, my God, don't say that to me--[_going to him, and clinging to him_] too late for me to recover a little of what I've lost!

PHILIP.

[_Pressing her to him._] Ah! Too late for neither of us. It's a bargain?

OTTOLINE.

Yes--yes; but----

PHILIP.

But----?

OTTOLINE.

[_Her head drooping._] Must it be--_some_ day? [_Piteously._] _Some_ day!

PHILIP.

There are signs in the sky; the day isn't far distant!

OTTOLINE.

I--I've money, Philip----

PHILIP.

H'sssh! [_Frowning._] Ottoline!

OTTOLINE.

_Ah, je vois que votre orgueil est plus fort que votre amour!_

PHILIP.

Ha, ha! _Peut-être; je ne m'en défends pas._ You consent?

OTTOLINE.

[_Pouting._] I may let my people know of the arrangement, may I not? You'll see them?

PHILIP.

My dear, what would be gained by that _now_?

OTTOLINE.

It would enable you to come often to Ennismore Gardens, and have cosy teas with me in my room. We couldn't be--what we _are_--on the sly indefinitely; it's impracticable. There'll be a storm at first, but it will soon blow over. [_Making a wry face._] Still, if you'd rather----

PHILIP.

No, no; I'll see them, if you wish me to. [_Nodding._] We'll be open and above-board from the start.

OTTOLINE.

Ha, ha! [_Sighing happily._] Ah-h-h-h!

PHILIP.

[_His tone changing to one of misgiving._] Ah, Otto, I begin to be afraid that I oughtn't--that I oughtn't to have spoken to you----

OTTOLINE.

Why?

PHILIP.

[_Gravely._] You will never be patient--you'll never be content to wait, if need be!

OTTOLINE.

Content, no. But _patient_! [_In a whisper._] Shall I tell you a secret?

PHILIP.

Well?

OTTOLINE.

I've been waiting--waiting for you--in my dreams--for ten years!

PHILIP.

[_Ardently._] Otto----!

OTTOLINE.

Isn't _that_ patience?

[_Their lips meet in a lingering kiss. The handle of the
door on the left is heard to rattle. Looking at the
door, they draw back from one another. The handle
rattles again._

PHILIP.

It's that idiot Robbie.

OTTOLINE.

Ha, ha, ha, ha----!

[_The door opens, and_ ROOPE _appears, with an air of
unconcern._

ROOPE.

[_Humming._] Tra, lal, lal, la----! _That's_ done, dear excellent friends! [_Closing the door, and coming forward._] Upon my word, letters are the curse of one's existence----!

OTTOLINE.

Ha, ha----! [_Seizing him._] Robbie----!

ROOPE.

[_Startled._] Hey?

OTTOLINE.

I can't take you to Lady Paulton's--or anywhere else. Philip and I are going to spend the rest of the afternoon here, if you'll let us--and talk--and talk----! [_Suddenly embracing him, and kissing him upon the cheek._] Ah! _Que vous êtes gentil! Merci--merci--merci----!_ [_Sitting in the chair on the left and unpinning her hat._] Ha, ha, ha, ha----!

ROOPE.

[_Turning to_ PHILIP, _his eyes bolting._] Phil----!

PHILIP.

[_Nodding._] Yes. [_Wringing_ ROOPE_'s hand._] Much obliged, Robbie.

END OF THE FIRST ACT

THE SECOND ACT

_The scene is a morning-room, richly furnished and decorated, in a house in Ennismore Gardens. The walls are of panelled wood for two-thirds of their height, the rest being covered with silk. In the wall at the back, between the centre and the left-hand corner, there is a handsome double-door opening upon another door, covered in thick cloth, which is supposed to give admittance to the library. On the right, in a piece of wall running obliquely towards the spectator from the back wall to the right-hand wall, is a companion double-door to that on the left, with the difference that the panels of the upper part of this door are glazed. A silk curtain obscures the glazed panels to the height of about seven feet from the floor, and above the curtain there is a view of a spacious hall. When the glazed door is opened, it is seen that the hall is appropriately furnished. A window is at the further end of it, letting in light from the street, and on the right of the window there is a lofty screen arranged in such a manner as to suggest that it conceals the front door of the house._

_The fireplace, where a bank of flowers hides the grate, is in the left-hand wall of the room. On the further side of the fireplace there is an armchair, and before the fireplace a settee. Behind the settee, also facing the fireplace, are a writing-table and chair; close to the further side of the writing-table is a smaller chair; and at the nearer end of the settee, but at some distance from it, stands a low-backed arm-chair which is turned in the direction of the door on the right._

_On the other side of the room, facing the spectator and following the line of the oblique wall, is a second settee. On the left of this settee is an arm-chair, on the right a round table and another chair. Books and periodicals are strewn upon the table. Against the wall at the back, between the doors, are an oblong table and a chair; and other articles of furniture and embellishment--cabinets of various kinds, jardinières, mirrors, lamps, etc., etc.--occupy spaces not provided for in this description._

_Among other objects upon the oblong table are some framed photographs, conspicuously displayed, of members of the Royal Family, and a book-rack containing books of reference._

_It is daylight._

[MISS TRACER, _a red-haired, sprightly young lady, is
seated upon the settee on the right, turning the leaves
of a picture-paper. A note-book, with a pencil stuck in
it, lies by her side. There is a knock at the door on
the left._

MISS TRACER.

[_Calling out._] Eh?

[_The door opens and_ LEONARD WESTRIP _appears. He
carries a pile of press-cuttings._

WESTRIP.

[_A fresh-coloured, boyish young man._] I beg your pardon----[_seeing that_ MISS TRACER _is alone_] oh, good morning.

MISS TRACER.

Good morning.

WESTRIP.

[_Entering and closing the door._] Lady Filson isn't down yet?

MISS TRACER.

No. [_Tossing the picture-paper onto the round table._] She didn't get to bed till pretty late last night, I suspect.

WESTRIP.

[_Advancing._] I thought she'd like to look through these. [_Showing_ MISS TRACER _the press-cuttings._] From the press-cutting agency.

MISS TRACER.

[_Picking up her note-book and rising._] You bet she would!

WESTRIP.

[_Handing her the press-cuttings._] Let me have them back again, please. Sir Randle hardly had time to glance at them before he went out.

MISS TRACER.

[_Inquisitively, elevating her eyebrows._] He's out very early?

WESTRIP.

Yes; he's gone to a memorial service.

MISS TRACER.

Another! [_With a twinkle._] That's the third this month.

WESTRIP.

So it is. I'm awfully sorry for him.

MISS TRACER.

[_Laughing slyly._] He, he, he! Ho, ho!

WESTRIP.

[_Surprised._] What is there to laugh at, Miss Tracer?

MISS TRACER.

You don't believe he has ever really known half the people he mourns, do you?

WESTRIP.

Not known them!

MISS TRACER.

[_Crossing to the writing-table and laying the press-cuttings upon it._] Guileless youth! Wait till you've breathed the air of this establishment a little longer.

WESTRIP.

[_Puzzled._] But if he hasn't known them, why should he----?

MISS TRACER.

For the sake of figuring among a lot of prominent personages, of course.

WESTRIP.

[_Incredulously._] Oh, Miss Tracer!

MISS TRACER.

Gospel. [_Taking up the press-cuttings and looking through them._] Many are the sympathetic souls who are grief-stricken in these days for the same reason. Here we are! [_Reading from a cutting._] Late Viscount Petersfield ... memorial service ... St. Margaret's, Westminster ... among those present ... h'm, h'm, h'm ... Sir Randle Filson ... wreaths were sent by ... h'm, h'm, h'm, h'm ... Sir Randle and Lady Filson! [_Replacing the press-cuttings upon the table._] Ha, ha, ha, ha--! [_Checking herself and turning to_ WESTRIP.] Our conversation is strictly private, Mr. Westrip?

WESTRIP.

[_Somewhat disturbed._] Strictly.

MISS TRACER.

[_Smiling at him winningly and moving to the settee before the fireplace._] You're a nice boy; I'm sure you wouldn't make mischief. [_Sinking on to the settee with a yawn._] Oh! Oh, I'm so weary!

WESTRIP.

Weary? Before you've begun your morning's work!

MISS TRACER.

_Before_ I've begun it! I had a parade downstairs in the servants' hall at a quarter-to-ten.

WESTRIP.

Parade?

MISS TRACER.

We've two new women in the house who are perfect idiots. They _can't_ remember to say "yes, my lady" and "no, my lady" and "very good, my lady" whenever Lady Filson speaks to them. One of them actually addressed her yesterday as "ma'am." I wonder the roof didn't fall in.

WESTRIP.

[_Meditatively._] I've noticed that Sir Randle and Lady Filson have a great relish for being Sir'd and Lady'd.

MISS TRACER.

Ha, ha! Rather! [_Over her shoulder._] _You_ take a friendly hint. If your predecessor had Sir Randle'd and Lady Filson'd them more frequently, you wouldn't be standing in his shoes at this moment.

WESTRIP.

[_In the middle of the room, his hands in his pockets._] Why _was_ Sir Randle knighted, do you know?

MISS TRACER.

Built a large drill-hall for the Territorials near his country place at Bramsfold.

WESTRIP.

[_Innocently._] Oh, is he interested in the Territorials?

MISS TRACER.

[_Partly raising herself._] Interested in the Territorials! How simple you are! He cares as much for the Territorials as I care for snakes. [_Kneeling upon the settee and resting her arms on the back of it, talkatively._] The drill-hall was _her_ notion; she engineered the whole affair.

WESTRIP.

[_Opening his eyes wider and wider._] Lady Filson?

MISS TRACER.

[_Nodding._] Her maid's my informant. A few years ago he was growing frightfully down-in-the-mouth. He fancied he'd got stuck, as it were--that everybody was getting an honour but himself. So the blessed shanty was run up in a devil of a hurry--excuse my Greek; and as soon as it was dry, Mrs. Filson, as she then was, wrote to some big-wig or other--without her husband's knowledge, she explained--and called attention to the service he'd rendered to the cause of patriotism. Lambert saw the draft of the letter on her mistress's dressing-table. [_Shaking with laughter._] Ho, ho, ho! And what d'ye think?

WESTRIP.

W-well?

MISS TRACER.

The corrections were in _his_ handwriting!

WESTRIP.

[_Shocked._] In Sir Randle's----!

MISS TRACER.