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LADY FILSON.
Taking advantage of a silly, emotional woman, to feather his nest!
SIR RANDLE.
[_Rising and pacing up and down between the glazed door and the settee on the right._] I shall have difficulty--[_shaking his uplifted fist_]
I shall have difficulty in restraining myself from denouncing Mr.
Mackworth in her presence!
BERTRAM.
[_Dismally._] As to the wedding, there's no reason that I can see--because a lady marries a literary man, I mean t'say--why the function should be a shabby one.
LADY FILSON.
[_Rising and moving about at the back distractedly._] That it sha'n't be! If we can't prevent my poor girl from throwing herself away, I'm determined her _wedding_ shall be smart and impressive!
SIR RANDLE.
[_Bitterly, with wild gestures._] "The interesting engagement is announced of Mr.--Mr.----"
BERTRAM.
[_Wandering to the fireplace, his chin on his breast._] Philip, father.
SIR RANDLE.
"--Mr. Philip Mackworth, the well-known novelist, to Ottoline, widow of the late Comte de Chaumie--[_peeping into the hall through the side of one of the curtains of the glazed door--his voice dying to a mutter_]
only daughter of Sir Randle and Lady Filson----"
LADY FILSON.
"Mrs.--Philip--Mackworth"! Ha, ha, ha! Mrs. Philip n.o.body!
BERTRAM.
[_Joining her._] Perhaps it would be wiser, mother, for me to retire while the interview takes place.
LADY FILSON.
[_Falling upon his neck._] Oh, my dear boy----!
SIR RANDLE.
[_Getting away from the door._] They're coming!
BERTRAM.
[_Quickly._] I'm near you if you want me, I mean t'say----
[_He goes out at the door on the left._ LADY FILSON _hastily resumes her seat at the writing-table, and_ SIR RANDLE, _pulling himself together, crosses to the fireplace. The glazed door opens and_ OTTOLINE _appears with_ PHILIP.
OTTOLINE.
[_Quietly._] Mr. Mackworth, mother--Dad----
PHILIP.
[_Advancing to_ LADY FILSON _cordially._] How do you do, Lady Filson?
LADY FILSON.
[_Giving him a reluctant hand and eyeing him askance with mingled aversion and indignation._] H-how do you do?
PHILIP.
This is very good of you. [_Bowing to_ SIR RANDLE.] How are you, Sir Randle?
SIR RANDLE.
[_His head in the air, severely._] How do you do, Mr. Mackworth?
PHILIP.
[_Breaking the ice._] We--we meet after many years----
SIR RANDLE.
Many.
LADY FILSON.
[_Still examining_ PHILIP.] M-many.
PHILIP.
And--if you've ever bestowed a thought on me since the old Paris days--in a way you can scarcely have expected.
LADY FILSON.
[_Turning to the writing-table to conceal her repugnance._] Scarcely.
SIR RANDLE.
Scarcely.
PHILIP.
[_To_ SIR RANDLE.] Oh, I am not vain enough, Sir Randle, to flatter myself that what you have heard from Ottoline gives you and Lady Filson unmixed pleasure. On the contrary----
