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OTTOLINE.
[_Starting up._] Oh, do try to be understanding and sympathetic! Mr.
Mackworth is a high-souled, n.o.ble fellow. If I'd been honest with myself, I should have married him ten years ago. To me this is a golden dream come true. Recollect my bitter experience of the _other_ sort of marriage! [_Walking away to the fireplace._] Why grudge me a spark of romance in my life!
SIR RANDLE.
[_Raising his hands._] Romance!
LADY FILSON.
[_To_ SIR RANDLE _and_ BERTRAM.] Just now she was resenting our considering her a child!
OTTOLINE.
[_Looking down upon the flowers in the grate._] Romance doesn't belong to youth, mother. Youth is greedy for reality--the toy that feels solid in its fingers. _I_ was, and bruised myself with it. After such a lesson as I've had, one yearns for something less tangible--something that lifts one morally out of oneself--an ideal----!
SIR RANDLE.
Ha! An extract from a novel of Mr. Mackworth's apparently!
LADY FILSON.
[_Harshly._] Ha, ha, ha, ha----!
OTTOLINE.
[_Turning sharply and coming forward._] Sssh! Don't you sneer, mother!
Don't you sneer, Dad! [_Her eyes flashing._] _C'est au-dessus de vous de sentir ce qu'il y a d'eleve et de grand!_ [_Fiercely._] _Tenez!
Qu'il vous plaise ou non----!_
[_She is checked by the entrance of_ UNDERWOOD _from the hall._
UNDERWOOD.
[_Addressing the back of_ LADY FILSON_'s head._] Mr. Philip Mackworth, m'lady.
LADY FILSON.
[_Straightening herself._] Not for me. [_Firmly._] For Madame de Chaumie.
UNDERWOOD.
I beg pardon, m'lady. The gentleman inquired for your ladyship----
OTTOLINE.
[_To_ UNDERWOOD.] In the drawing-room--[_with a queenly air_] no, in my own room.
UNDERWOOD.
[_To_ OTTOLINE.] Yes, mad'm.
[UNDERWOOD _withdraws._
OTTOLINE.
[_Approaching_ SIR RANDLE _and_ LADY FILSON.] Dad--mother----?
LADY FILSON.
Your father may do as he chooses. [_Rising and crossing to the writing-table, where she sits and prepares to write._] I have letters to answer.
OTTOLINE.
[_To_ SIR RANDLE.] Dad----?
SIR RANDLE.
[_Rising._] Impossible--impossible. [_Marching to the fireplace._] I cannot act apart from your dear mother. [_His back to the fireplace, virtuously._] I never act apart from your dear mother.
OTTOLINE.
_Comme vous voudrez!_ [_Moving to the glazed door and there pausing._]
You _won't_----?
[SIR RANDLE _blinks at the ceiling again._ LADY FILSON _scribbles audibly with a scratchy pen._ OTTOLINE _goes out, closing the door._
BERTRAM.
[_Jumping up as the door shuts--in an expostulatory tone._] Good heavens! My dear father--my dear mother----!
SIR RANDLE.
[_Coming to earth._] Eh?
BERTRAM.
[_Agitatedly._] My sister will pack her trunks and be off to an hotel if you're not careful. She won't stand this, I mean t'say. There'll be a marriage at the registrar's, or some ghastly proceeding--a scandal--all kinds of gossip----!
LADY FILSON.
[_Throwing down her pen and rising--holding her heart._] Oh----!
BERTRAM.
[_With energy._] I mean to say----!
SIR RANDLE.
