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[_Closing her eyes._] Terrible.
PHILIP.
It shows the bishop and the judge playing to the gallery, the politician adopting the methods of the cheap-jack, the d.u.c.h.ess vying with the puffing draper; it shows how even true genius submits itself to conditions that are accepted and excused as "modern," and is found elbowing and pushing in the hurly-burly. It shows how the ordinary decencies of life are sacrificed to the paragraphist, the interviewer, and the ghoul with the camera; how the home is stripped of its sanct.i.ty, blessed charity made a vehicle for display, the very grave-yard transformed into a parade ground; while the outsider looks on with a sinking of the vitals because the drumstick is beyond his reach and the bom-bom-bom is not for him! It shows----! [_Checking himself and leaving the arm-chair with a short laugh._] Oh, well, that's the setting of my story, Sir Randle! I won't inflict the details upon you.
SIR RANDLE.
Er--h'm--[_expansively_] an excellent theme, Mr. Mackworth; a most promising theme! [_To_ LADY FILSON.] Eh, Winifred?
LADY FILSON.
[_Politely._] Excellent; quite, quite excellent!
PHILIP.
[_Bowing to_ LADY FILSON _and going to_ OTTOLINE.] Thank you.
OTTOLINE.
[_To_ PHILIP, _glowingly_.] Splendid! [_Laying her hand upon his arm._]
You have purged your disgrace. [_Softly._] You may come and see me to-morrow.
PHILIP.
[_To_ OTTOLINE.] Ha, ha----!
SIR RANDLE.
[_In response to a final bow from_ PHILIP.] Good-bye.
LADY FILSON.
_Good_-bye.
[OTTOLINE _opens the glazed door and_ PHILIP _follows her into the hall. Immediately the door is shut_, LADY FILSON _hurries to_ SIR RANDLE.
SIR RANDLE.
[_In high spirits._] Winnie----!
LADY FILSON.
_That_ will never be a popular success, Randle!
SIR RANDLE.
Never. An offensive book----!
LADY FILSON.
Ho, ho, ho, ho----!
SIR RANDLE.
A grossly offensive book!
LADY FILSON.
[_Anxiously_.] He--he'll keep his word----?
SIR RANDLE.
To join us in persuading her to drop him----
LADY FILSON.
If it fails?
SIR RANDLE.
[_With conviction._] Yes. [_Walking about._] Yes. We _must_ be just. We owe it to ourselves to be just to Mr. Mackworth. He is not altogether devoid of gentlemanlike scruples.
LADY FILSON.
[_Breathlessly._] And--and _she_----?
SIR RANDLE.
I trust--I trust that my child's monstrous infatuation will have cooled down by the autumn.
LADY FILSON.
[_Supporting herself by the chair at the writing-table, her hand to her heart--exhausted._] Oh! Oh, dear!
SIR RANDLE.
[_Returning to her._] I conducted the affair with skill and tact, Winifred?
LADY FILSON.
[_Rallying._] It was masterly--[_kissing him_] masterly----
SIR RANDLE.
[_Proudly._] Ha!
[_She sits at the writing-table again and takes up her pen as_ SIR RANDLE _stalks to the door on the left._
LADY FILSON.
