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SIR RANDLE.
[_Looking at a clock standing on a commode against the wall on the right._] Twenty minutes past eleven.
OTTOLINE.
He--he will be here at half-past. Don't be angry. I've asked him to come--to explain his position clearly to you and mother with regard to me. There's to be nothing underhand--_rien de secret_!
LADY FILSON.
A-asked whom?
OTTOLINE.
[_Throwing her head back._] Ho! You'll think I'm ushering in an endless string of lovers this morning! I promise you this is the last.
SIR RANDLE.
_Who_ is coming?
OTTOLINE.
[_Sitting at the writing-table and, her elbows on the table, supporting her chin on her fists._] Mr. Mackworth.
LADY FILSON.
[_After a pause._] Mackworth?
OTTOLINE.
Philip Mackworth.
LADY FILSON.
[_Dully._] Isn't he the journalist man you--you carried on with once, in Paris?
OTTOLINE.
What an expression, mother! Well--yes.
SIR RANDLE.
[_Simply._] Good G.o.d!
OTTOLINE.
He doesn't write for the papers any longer.
LADY FILSON.
W-what----?
OTTOLINE.
A novelist chiefly.
LADY FILSON.
[_Faintly._] Oh!
SIR RANDLE.
Successful?
OTTOLINE.
It depends on what you call success.
SIR RANDLE.
_I_ call success what everybody calls success.
BERTRAM.
[_Rising, stricken._] There are novelists and novelists, I mean t'say.
OTTOLINE.
Don't imagine that I am apologizing for him, please, in the slightest degree; but no, he _hasn't_ been successful up to the present, in the usual acceptation of the term.
LADY FILSON.
[_Searching for her handkerchief._] Where--where have you----?
OTTOLINE.
I met him yesterday at Robbie Roope's, at lunch. [LADY FILSON _finds her handkerchief and applies it to her eyes._] Oh, there's no need to cry, mother dear. For mercy's sake----!
LADY FILSON.
Oh, Otto! [_Rising and crossing to the settee on the right, whimpering._] Oh, Randle! [_To_ BERTRAM, _who comes to her._] Oh, my boy!
SIR RANDLE.
[_Gazing blinkingly at the ceiling as_ LADY FILSON _sinks upon the settee._] Incredible! Incredible!
BERTRAM.
[_Sitting beside_ LADY FILSON, _dazed._] My dear mother----!
