BERTRAM.

Westrip?

SIR RANDLE.

Leonard—Westrip?

LADY FILSON.

Mr. Westrip!

SIR RANDLE.

[To DUNNING, blinking.] Mr. Westrip is my secretary.

BERTRAM.

[To DUNNING, agape.] He's my father's secretary.

DUNNING.

[To SIR RANDLE.] Your seckert'ry?

PHILIP.

[Coming to the nearer end of the settee on the left.] The—the—the fair boy I've seen in Ennismore Gardens!

ROOPE.

[Rising and joining SIR RANDLE and LADY FILSON—expressing his amazement by flourishing his arms.] Oh, my dear excellent friends——!

LADY FILSON.

[To SIR RANDLE.] Randle—what—what next——!

SIR RANDLE.

[Closing his eyes.] Astounding! Astounding!

DUNNING.

[Looking about him, rather aggressively.] Well, I seem to have accidentally dropped a bombshell among you! Will any lady or gentleman kindly oblige with some particulars——? [To OTTOLINE, who checks him with an imperious gesture—changing his tone.] I beg your pardon, madarme——

[OTTOLINE has left her chair and come to the writing-table, where, with a drawn face and downcast eyes, she is now standing erect.

OTTOLINE.

[To DUNNING, repeating her gesture.] Stop! [To LADY FILSON and SIR RANDLE, in a strained voice.] Mother—Dad——

[Everybody looks at her, surprised at her manner.

LADY FILSON.

Otto dear——?

OTTOLINE.

I—I can't allow you all to be mystified any longer. I—I can clear this matter up.

SIR RANDLE.

You, my darling?

OTTOLINE.

[Steadying herself by resting her finger-tips upon the table.] The—the explanation is that Mr. Westrip—[with a wan smile] poor boy—he would jump into the sea for me if I bade him—the explanation is that Mr. Westrip has been—helping me——

LADY FILSON.

Helping you——?

SIR RANDLE.

Helping you——?

OTTOLINE.

[Inclining her head.] Helping me. He—he—— [Raising her eyes defiantly and confronting them all.] Ecoutez! Robbie Roope has asked who is the actual tenant of the cellar and room in Carmichael Lane. [Breathing deeply.] I am.

LADY FILSON.

[Advancing a few steps.] You are! N-n-nonsense!

OTTOLINE.

Mr. Westrip took the place for me—my arrangement with Titterton made it necessary——

LADY FILSON.

With Titterton! Then he—he has——?

OTTOLINE.

Yes. The thousands of copies—packed in the cases with the lying labels—I have bought them—they're mine——

LADY FILSON.

Y-y-yours!

OTTOLINE.

I—I was afraid the book had failed—and I went to Titterton—and bargained with him——

LADY FILSON.

So—so everything—everything that your brother and Mr.—Mr. Dunning have surmised——?

OTTOLINE.

Everything, mother—except that I am the culprit, and Mr. Mackworth is the victim.

LADY FILSON.

Ottoline——!

OTTOLINE.

[Passing her hand over her brow.] It—it's horrible of me to give Titterton away—but—what can I do?—[She turns her back upon them sharply and, leaning against the table, searches for her handkerchief.] Oh! Need Mr. Dunning stay——?

[BERTRAM, aghast, nudges DUNNING and hurries to the vestibule door. DUNNING follows him into the vestibule on tiptoe. Slowly and deliberately PHILIP moves to the middle of the room and stands there with his hands clenched, glaring into space. SIR RANDLE, his jaw falling, sits in the chair on the extreme left.

LADY FILSON.

[Touching PHILIP's arm sympathetically.] Oh, Philip——!

DUNNING.

[To BERTRAM, in a whisper.] Phiou! Rummy development this, Mr. Filson!

BERTRAM.

[To DUNNING, in the same way.] Awful. [Opening the outer door.] I—I'll see you in the m-m-morning.

DUNNING.

Pleasure. [Raising his voice.] Evening, ladies and gentlemen.

LADY FILSON.

[Again sitting on the settee on the left, also searching for her handkerchief.] G-g-good night.

SIR RANDLE.

[Weakly.] Good night.

ROOPE.

[Who has wandered to the bookcase like a man in a trance.] Good night.

[DUNNING disappears, and BERTRAM closes the outer door and comes back into the room. Shutting the vestibule door, he sinks into the chair lately vacated by DUNNING. There is a silence, broken at length by a low, grating laugh from PHILIP.

PHILIP.

Ha, ha, ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha——!

LADY FILSON.

[Dolefully.] Oh, Ottoline—Ottoline——!

PHILIP.

Ha, ha, ha——!

OTTOLINE.

[Creeping to the nearer end of the writing-table.] H'ssh! H'ssh! Philip—Philip——!

PHILIP.

[Loudly.] Ho, ho, ho——!

OTTOLINE.

Don't! don't! [Making a movement of entreaty towards him.] Phil—Phil——!

[His laughter ceases abruptly and he looks her full in the face.

PHILIP.

[After a moment's pause, bitingly.] Thank you—thank you—[turning from her and seating himself in the chair by the smoking-table and resting his chin on his fist] thank you.

[Again there is a pause, and then OTTOLINE draws herself up proudly and moves in a stately fashion towards the vestibule door.

OTTOLINE.

[At BERTRAM's side.] Bertram—my cloak——

[BERTRAM rises meekly and fetches her cloak.

SIR RANDLE.

[Getting to his feet and approaching PHILIP—mournfully.] Your mother's wrap, also, Bertram.

LADY FILSON.

[Rising.] Yes, let us all go home.

SIR RANDLE.

[To PHILIP, laying a hand on his shoulder.] My daughter has brought great humiliation upon us—upon her family, my dear Philip—by this—I must be harsh—by this unladylike transaction——

LADY FILSON.

I have never felt so ashamed in my life!

SIR RANDLE.

[To PHILIP.] By-and-by I shall be better able to command language in which to express my profound regret. [Offering his hand.] For the present—good night, and God bless you!

PHILIP.

[Shaking SIR RANDLE's hand mechanically.] Good night.

[As SIR RANDLE turns away, LADY FILSON comes to PHILIP. BERTRAM, having helped OTTOLINE with her cloak, now brings LADY FILSON's wrap from the vestibule. SIR RANDLE takes it from him, and BERTRAM then returns to the vestibule and puts on his overcoat.

LADY FILSON.

[To PHILIP, who rises.] You must have us to dinner another time, Philip. If I eat a crust to-night it will be as much as I shall manage. [Speaking lower, with genuine feeling.] Oh, my dear boy, don't be too cast down—over your clever book, I mean! [Taking him by the shoulders.] It's a cruel disappointment for you—and you don't deserve it. May I——? [She pulls him to her and kisses him.] Good night.

PHILIP.

[Gratefully.] Good night.

[LADY FILSON leaves PHILIP and looks about for her wrap. SIR RANDLE puts her into it and then goes into the vestibule and wrestles with his overcoat.

BERTRAM.

[Coming to PHILIP, humbly.] M—M—Mackworth—I—I——

PHILIP.

[Kindly.] No, no; don't you bother, old man——

BERTRAM.

I—I could kick myself, Mackworth, I could indeed. I've been a sneak and a cad, I mean t'say, and—and I'm properly paid out——

PHILIP.

[Shaking him gently.] Why, what are you remorseful for? You've only brought out the truth, Bertie——

BERTRAM.

Yes, but I mean to say——!

PHILIP.

And I mean to say that I'm in your debt for showing me that I've been a vain, credulous ass. Now be off and get some food. [Holding out his hand.] Good night.

BERTRAM.

[Wringing PHILIP's hand.] Good night, Mackworth. [Turning from PHILIP and seeing ROOPE, who, anxiously following events, is standing by the chair on the extreme left.] Good night, Roope.

ROOPE.

G-g-good night.

LADY FILSON.

[Half in the room and half in the vestibule—to ROOPE, remembering his existence.] Oh, good night, Mr. Roope!

ROOPE.

Good night, dear Lady Filson.

SIR RANDLE.

[In the vestibule.] Good night, Mr. Roope.

ROOPE.

Good night. Good night, dear excellent friends.

LADY FILSON.

[To OTTOLINE, who is lingering by the big doors.] Ottoline——

[LADY FILSON and BERTRAM join SIR RANDLE in the vestibule and SIR RANDLE opens the outer door. PHILIP, his hands behind him and his chin on his breast, has walked to the fireplace and is standing there looking fixedly into the fire. OTTOLINE slowly comes forward and fingers the back of the chair by the smoking-table.

OTTOLINE.

Good night, Philip.

[He turns to her, makes her a stiff, formal bow, and faces the fire again.

ROOPE.

[Advancing to her—under his breath.] Oh——!

OTTOLINE.

[Giving him her hand.] Ah! [With a plaintive shrug.] Vous voyez! C'est fini apres tout!

ROOPE.

No, no——!

OTTOLINE.

[Withdrawing her hand.] Pst! [Throwing her head up.] Good night, Robbie.

[With a queenly air she sweeps into the vestibule and follows SIR RANDLE and LADY FILSON out on to the landing. BERTRAM closes the vestibule door, and immediately afterwards the outer door slams.

ROOPE.

[To PHILIP, in an agony.] No, no, Phil! It mustn't end like this! Good lord, man, reflect—consider what you're chucking away! You're mad—absolutely mad! [PHILIP calmly presses a bell-push at the side of the fireplace.] I'll go after 'em—and talk to her. I'll talk to her. [Running to the vestibule door and opening it.] Don't wait for me. [Going into the vestibule and grabbing his hat and overcoat.] It's a tiff—a lovers' tiff! It's nothing but a lovers' tiff! [Shutting the vestibule door, piteously.] Oh, my dear excellent friend——!

[JOHN appears, opening one of the big doors a little way. Again the outer door slams.

PHILIP.

[To JOHN, sternly.] Dinner.

JOHN.

[Looking for the guests—dumbfoundered] D-d-dinner, sir?

PHILIP.

Serve dinner.

JOHN.

[His eyes bolting.] The—the—the ladies and gentlemen have gone, sir!

PHILIP.

Yes. I'm dining alone.

[JOHN vanishes precipitately; whereupon PHILIP strides to the big doors, thrusts them wide open with a blow of his fists, and sits at the dining-table.

END OF THE THIRD ACT



THE FOURTH ACT

The scene is the same, the light that of a fine winter morning. The big doors are open, and from the dining-room windows, where the curtains are now drawn back, there is a view of some buildings opposite and, through a space between the buildings, of the tops of the bare trees in Gray's Inn garden.

Save for a chair with a crumpled napkin upon it which stands at the dining-table before the remains of PHILIP's breakfast, the disposition of the furniture is as when first shown.

A fire is burning in the nearer room.

[PHILIP, dressed as at the opening of the preceding act, is seated on the settee on the right, moodily puffing at his pipe. ROOPE faces him, in the chair by the smoking-table, with a mournful air. ROOPE is in his overcoat and is nursing his hat.

PHILIP.

[To ROOPE, shortly, as if continuing a conversation.] Well?

ROOPE.

Well, what happened was this. I——

[He breaks off to glance over his shoulder into the further room.

PHILIP.

Go on. Nobody'll hear you. John's out.

ROOPE.

What happened was this. I overtook 'em at the bottom of the stairs, and begged 'em to let me go back with them to Ennismore Gardens. Lady Filson and I got into one cab, Sir Randle and Madame de Chaumie into another. Bertram Filson slunk off to his club. At Ennismore Gardens we had the most depressin' meal I've ever sat down to, and then Madame Ottoline proposed that I should smoke a cigarette in her boudoir. [Distressed.] Oh, my dear Phil——!

PHILIP.

W-w-what——?

ROOPE.

I can't bear to see a woman in tears; I can't, positively.

PHILIP.

[Between his teeth.] Confound you, Robbie, who can! Don't brag about it.

ROOPE.

At first she swept up and down the room like an outraged Empress. Her skirts created quite a wind. I won't attempt to tell you all the bitter things she said——

PHILIP.

Of me?

ROOPE.

And of me, dear excellent friend.

PHILIP.

[Grimly.] For your share in the business.

ROOPE.

[With a nod.] The fatal luncheon in South Audley Street. However, she soon softened, and came and knelt by the fire. And suddenly—you've seen a child fall on the pavement and cut its knees, haven't you, Phil?——

PHILIP.

Of course I have.

ROOPE.

That's how she cried. I was really alarmed.

PHILIP.

The—the end of it being——?

ROOPE.

[Dismally.] The end of it being that she went off to bed, declaring that she recognizes that the breach between you is beyond healing, and that she's resolved never to cross your path again if she can avoid it.

PHILIP.

[Laying his pipe aside.] Ha! [Scowling at ROOPE.] And so this is the result of your self-appointed mission, is it?

ROOPE.

[Hurt.] That's rather ungrateful, Phil——

PHILIP.

[Starting up and walking away to the left.] P'sha!

ROOPE.

If you'd heard how I reasoned with her——!

PHILIP.

[Striding up and down.] What had I better do? It's good of you to be here so early. [ROOPE rises.] I'm not ungrateful, Robbie. Advise me.

ROOPE.

[Stiffly.] I assume, from your tone, that what you wish to do is to—er——?

PHILIP.

To abase myself before her; to grovel at her feet and crave her pardon for my behaviour of last night. What else should I want to do, in God's name!

ROOPE.

[Dryly.] I see, you've slept on it.

PHILIP.

Laid awake on it. [Fiercely.] Do I look as if I'd slept the sleep of a healthy infant?

ROOPE.

I don't know anything about infants, I am happy to say, healthy or ailing; but certainly your treatment of Madame de Chaumie was atrocious.

PHILIP.

Brutal, savage, inhuman! [Halting and extending his arms.] And what's been her fault? She's dared to love me eagerly, impetuously, uncontrollably—me, a conceited, egotistical fellow who is no more worth her devotion than the pompous beast who opens her father's front-door! And because, out of her love, she commits a heedless, impulsive act which deals a blow at my rotten pride, I slap her face and turn my back upon her, and suffer her to leave my rooms as though she's a charwoman detected in prigging silver from my cash-box! [Clasping his brow and groaning.] Oh—! [In sudden fury at seeing ROOPE thoughtfully examining his hat.] Damn it, Robbie, stop fiddling with your hat or you'll drive me crazy!

[He sits on the settee on the left and rests his head on his fists. ROOPE hastily deposits his hat on the smoking-table.

ROOPE.

[Approaching PHILIP coldly.] I was considering, dear excellent friend—but perhaps in your present state of irritability——

PHILIP.

[Holding out his hand penitently.] Shut up!

ROOPE.

[Presenting PHILIP with two fingers.] I was considering—when you almost sprang at my throat—I was considering that it isn't at all unlikely that Madame de Chaumie's frame of mind is a trifle less inflexible this morning. She has slept—or laid awake—on the events of last night too, recollect.

PHILIP.

[Raising his head.] Having been kicked out of this place a few hours ago, her affection for me revives with the rattle of the milk-cans!

ROOPE.

[Evasively.] At any rate, she must be conscious that you were smarting under provocation. She confessed as much during our talk. [Magnanimously.] Even I admit you had provocation.

PHILIP.

That never influenced a woman, Robbie. Besides, I've insulted this one before—grossly insulted her, in the old days in Paris——

ROOPE.

Ancient history! My advice is—since you invite it—my advice is that you write her a letter——

PHILIP.

I've composed half-a-dozen already. [Pointing to a waste-paper basket by the writing-table.] The pieces are in that basket.

ROOPE.

No, no; not a highly-wrought performance. Simply a line, asking her to receive you. [PHILIP rises listlessly.] Send it along by messenger. [With growing enthusiasm.] Look here! I'll take it!

PHILIP.

[Gloomily, his hand on Roope's shoulder.] Ho, ho! You—you indefatigable old Cupid!

ROOPE.

[Looking at his watch.] Quarter-past-ten. [Excitedly.] Phil, I bet you a hundred guineas—[correcting himself] er—well—five pounds—I bet you five pounds I'm with you again, with a favourable reply, before twelve!

PHILIP.

[Clapping ROOPE on the back.] Done! [Crossing to the writing-table.] At the worst, I've earned a fiver.

ROOPE.

[As PHILIP sits at the table and takes a sheet of paper and an envelope from a drawer.] May I suggest——?

PHILIP.

[Dipping his pen in the ink.] Fire away, old chap.

ROOPE.

[Seeking for inspiration by gazing at the ceiling.] H'm—[Dictating.] "Forgive me. I forgive you. When may I come to you?" [To PHILIP.] Not another word.

PHILIP.

[As he writes.] By George, you've got the romantic touch, Robbie! If you'd been a literary bloke, what sellers you'd have written!

ROOPE.

[Behind the smoking-table, smoothing his hair complacently.] Funny, your remark. As a matter of fact, I used to dabble a little in pen-and-ink as a young man.

PHILIP.

[Reading, a tender ring in his voice.] "Forgive me. I forgive you. When may I come to you?" [Adding his signature.] "Philip."

ROOPE.

Admirable!

PHILIP.

[Folding and enclosing the note—catching some of ROOPE's hopefulness.] In the meantime I'll array myself in my Sunday-best—[moistening the envelope] on the chance——

ROOPE.

Do; at once. [Putting on his hat.] She may summon you by telephone——

PHILIP.

[Addressing the envelope.] She gave me a scarf-pin yesterday—such a beauty. [Softly.] I'll wear it. [Rising and giving the note to ROOPE.] Bless you, old boy!

[ROOPE pockets the note, grasps PHILIP's hand hurriedly, and bustles to the vestibule door.

ROOPE.

My quickest way is the Tube to Bayswater, and then a taxi across the Park——

[He has entered the vestibule—omitting to close the door in his haste—and has opened the outer door when PHILIP calls to him.

PHILIP.

[Standing behind the smoking-table—with a change of manner.] Robbie——

ROOPE.

Hey?

PHILIP.

Robbie—[ROOPE returns to PHILIP reluctantly, leaving the outer door open.] Oh, Robbie—[gripping ROOPE's arm] how I boasted to you of my triumph—my grand victory! How I swaggered and bellowed, and crowed over you——!

ROOPE.

[Fidgeting to get away.] Yes, but we won't discuss that now, Phil——

PHILIP.

[Detaining him.] Wait. [Brokenly.] Robbie—should Ottoline show any inclination to—to patch matters up, you may tell her—as from me—that I—I've done with it.

ROOPE.

[Wonderingly.] Done with it?

PHILIP.

My career as a writing-man. It's finished. [Hanging his head.] I'm sorry to break faith with her people; but she may take me, if she will, on her own terms—a poor devil who has proved a duffer at his job, and who is content henceforth to be nothing but her humble slave and dependant.

ROOPE.

[Energetically.] My dear Phil, for heaven's sake, don't entertain such a notion! Abandon your career just when you're making a noise in the world——!

PHILIP.

[Throwing up his hands.] Noise in the world!

ROOPE.

When you're getting the finest advertisement an author could possibly desire!

PHILIP.

[Choking.] Advertisement——!

ROOPE.

I can sympathize with your feeling mortified at not scoring entirely off your own bat; but, deuce take it, your book is in its thirteenth edition!

PHILIP.

[Laughing wildly.] Ho, ho, ho! [Moving to the fireplace.] Ha, ha, ha, ha——!

ROOPE.

[Testily.] Oh, I'm glad I amuse you——!

PHILIP.

[Coming to the settee on the right.] You're marvellous, Robbie—incomparable——!

ROOPE.

[Again preparing to depart.] Indeed?

PHILIP.

Ha, ha, ha——!

[A moment earlier, SIR TIMOTHY BARRADELL has appeared in the vestibule, trying, in the dim light there, to decipher the name on the outer door. Hearing the sound of voices, he turns and reveals himself.

SIR TIMOTHY.

[Looking into the room and encountering ROOPE.] Roope!

ROOPE.

[As they shake hands—astonished.] Dear excellent friend, what a surprise!

SIR TIMOTHY.

Ah, don't flatter yourself you're the only early riser in London! [Seeing PHILIP.] Mr. Mackworth—[advancing] I found your door open and I took the liberty——

PHILIP.

[Meeting him in the middle of the room.] Sir Timothy Barradell, isn't it?

SIR TIMOTHY.

It is. [They shake hands, cordially on SIR TIMOTHY's part, with more formality on PHILIP's.] It's an unceremonious hour for a call, but if you'd spare me five minutes——

PHILIP.

[Civilly.] Pray sit down. [Joining ROOPE at the entrance to the vestibule.] Robbie has to run away——

ROOPE.

[Diplomatically.] Can't stay another moment. [Waving a hand to SIR TIMOTHY.] Au revoir, dear Sir Timothy!

SIR TIMOTHY.

[Laying his hat upon the settee on the right and taking off his gloves.] So long! [PHILIP and ROOPE stare at SIR TIMOTHY, whose back is towards them. ROOPE gives PHILIP an inquiring look, which PHILIP answers by a shrug and a shake of the head; and then PHILIP lets ROOPE out and comes back into the room. SIR TIMOTHY turns to him.] I'm afraid you think I'm presuming on a very slight acquaintance, Mr. Mackworth——

PHILIP.

[Shutting the vestibule door.] Not in the least.

SIR TIMOTHY.

Anyhow I'll not waste more of your valuable time than I can help. [PHILIP points to the settee and the two men sit, Sir Timothy on the settee, PHILIP in the chair by the smoking-table. SIR TIMOTHY inspects the toes of his boots.] Mr. Mackworth, I—I won't beat about the bush—it's a delicate subject I'm approaching you on.

PHILIP.

[Leaning back in his chair.] Really?

SIR TIMOTHY.

An extremely delicate subject—[raising his eyes] Madame de Chaumie.

PHILIP.

Madame de Chaumie?

SIR TIMOTHY.

In the first place, I suppose you're aware that I had the temerity to propose marriage to the lady in the summer of this year?

PHILIP.

Yes, I'm aware of it. Madame de Chaumie informed me of the circumstance.

SIR TIMOTHY.

[Nodding.] She would; she would. [Straightening himself.] Well, Mr. Mackworth, while I was abroad I heard from various sources that you had become a pretty regular visitor at the house of her parents, and that you and she were to be seen together occasionally in the secluded spots of Kensington Gardens; and I naturally inferred that it was yourself she'd had the good taste to single out from among her numerous suitors.

PHILIP.

[With a smile.] I'd rather you didn't put it in that way, Sir Timothy; but I guessed yesterday that the facts of the case had reached you through some channel or other.

SIR TIMOTHY.

Yesterday?

PHILIP.

When Robbie Roope brought me your kind greetings.

SIR TIMOTHY.

Ah, that's nice of you! [Constrainedly.] That's—nice of you.

PHILIP.

[Changing his position and unbending.] But tell me! I don't know yet what you have to say to me about Madame de Chaumie—but why should you find it embarrassing to speak of her to me? [Gently.] We're men of the world, you and I; and it isn't the rule of life that the prize always goes to the most deserving. [With animation.]

"And in the world, as in the school, I'd say, how fate may change and shift; The prize be sometimes with the fool, The race not always to the swift. The strong may yield, the good may fall, The great man be a vulgar clown, The knave be lifted over all, The kind cast pitilessly down."

So sang one of the noblest gentlemen who have ever followed my calling!

[There is a brief silence, and then SIR TIMOTHY rises abruptly and walks to the fireplace. PHILIP looks after him, perplexed.

SIR TIMOTHY.

[Facing the fire.] Mr. Mackworth——

PHILIP.

Eh?

SIR TIMOTHY.

I saw Bertram Filson last night—her brother.

PHILIP.

[Pricking up his ears.] You did? Where?

SIR TIMOTHY.

At the club—the Junior Somerset. He came in late, looking a bit out of gear, and ate a mouthful of dinner and drank a whole bottle of Pommery; and afterwards he joined me in the smoking-room and—and was exceedingly communicative.

PHILIP.

[Attentively.] Oh?

SIR TIMOTHY.

I didn't encourage him to babble—[turning] 'twas he that insisted on confiding to me what had occurred——

PHILIP.

Occurred?

SIR TIMOTHY.

That you and Madame de Chaumie had had a serious difference, and that there's small prospect of its being bridged over.

PHILIP.

[Glaring.] Oh, he confided that to you, did he, Sir Timothy?

SIR TIMOTHY.

He did.

PHILIP.

[Rising and pacing up and down on the left.] And what the devil does Filson mean by gossiping about me at a club—me and my relations with Madame de Chaumie!

SIR TIMOTHY.

[Advancing a little.] Ah, don't be angry! The champagne he'd drunk had loosened his tongue. And then, I'm a friend of the family——

PHILIP.

Infernal puppy!

SIR TIMOTHY.

Referring to Filson?

PHILIP.

Of course.

Sir Timothy.

[Mildly.] Well, whether young Filson's a puppy or not, now perhaps you begin to appreciate my motive for intruding on you?

PHILIP.

[Halting.] Hardly.

SIR TIMOTHY.

You don't! [Rumpling his hair.] I'll try to make it plainer to you. [Behind the smoking-table.] Er—will I smoke one of your cigarettes?——

PHILIP.

[Frigidly polite.] Please.

SIR TIMOTHY.

[Taking a cigarette from the box on the table.] Mr. Mackworth, if Filson's prognostications as to the result of the quarrel between you and his sister are fulfilled, it's my intention, after a decent interval, to renew my appeal to her to marry me. [Striking a match.] Is that clear?

PHILIP.

Perfectly. [Stiffly.] But all the same, I'm still at a loss——

SIR TIMOTHY.

[Lighting his cigarette.] At a loss, are you! [Warmly.] You're at a loss to understand that I'm not the sort of man who'd steal a march upon another where a woman's concerned, and take advantage of his misfortunes in a dirty manner! [Coming to PHILIP.] Mackworth—I'll drop the Mister, if you've no objection—Mackworth, I promise you I won't move a step till I have your assurance that your split with Madame de Chaumie is a mortal one, and that the coast is open to all comers. That's my part o' the bargain, and I expect you on your side to treat me with equal fairness and frankness. [Offering his hand.] You will?

PHILIP.

My dear Sir Timothy—my dear Barradell—[shaking SIR TIMOTHY's hand heartily.] you're the most chivalrous fellow I've ever met!

SIR TIMOTHY.

[Walking away.] Ah, go on now!

PHILIP.

[Following him.] I apologize sincerely for being so curt.

SIR TIMOTHY.

Don't mention it.

PHILIP.

It's true, Ottoline and I have had a bad fall out. [Keenly.] Did Filson give you any particulars——?

SIR TIMOTHY.

I gathered 'twas something arising out of a book of yours——

PHILIP.

Y-y-yes; a silly affair in which I was utterly in the wrong. I lost my accursed temper—made a disgraceful exhibition of myself. [Touching SIR TIMOTHY's arm.] I will be quite straight with you, Barradell—Robbie Roope has just gone to her with a note from me. I don't want to pain you; but Robbie and I hope that, after a night's rest—[The bell rings in the vestibule.] Excuse me—my servant isn't in. [He goes into the vestibule, leaving the door open. SIR TIMOTHY picks up his hat. On opening the outer door, PHILIP confronts OTTOLINE.] Otto——!

OTTOLINE.

[In the doorway, giving him both her hands.] Are you alone, Philip?

PHILIP.

[Drawing her into the vestibule, his eyes sparkling.] No. [With a motion of his head.] Sir Timothy Barradell——

[OTTOLINE passes PHILIP and enters the room, holding out her hand to SIR TIMOTHY. Her eyes are black-rimmed from sleeplessness; but whatever asperity she has displayed overnight has disappeared, and she is again full of softness and charm.

OTTOLINE.

Sir Tim!

PHILIP.

[Shutting the outer door—breathing freely.] Kind of Sir Timothy to look me up, isn't it?

OTTOLINE.

[To SIR TIMOTHY.] Vous etes un vaurien! When did you return?

SIR TIMOTHY.

[Who has flung his cigarette into the grate—crestfallen.] The day before yesterday.

OTTOLINE.

Then I mustn't scold you for not having been to see us yet. [Wonderingly.] You find time to call on Mr. Mackworth, though!

SIR TIMOTHY.

[With a gulp.] I—I was on my way to my solicitors, who are in Raymond Buildings, and I remembered that I knew Mackworth years ago——

PHILIP.

[Loitering near the vestibule door, impatient for SIR TIMOTHY's departure.] When I was a rollicking man-about-town, eh, Barradell!

SIR TIMOTHY.

[Retaining OTTOLINE's hand—to her, earnestly.] My dear Madame de Chaumie——

OTTOLINE.

Yes?

SIR TIMOTHY.

[Bracing himself.] A little bird brought the news to me shortly after I left England. [She lowers her eyes.] I—I congratulate you and Mackworth—I congratulate you from the core of my heart.

OTTOLINE.

[In a quiet voice.] Thank you, dear Sir Timothy.

SIR TIMOTHY.

May you both be as happy as you deserve to be, and even happier!

PHILIP.

[Laughing.] Ha, ha, ha!

SIR TIMOTHY.

[Squeezing her hand.] Good-bye for the present.

OTTOLINE.

[Smilingly.] Good-bye. [He passes her and joins PHILIP. Unseen by OTTOLINE—who proceeds to loosen her coat at the settee on the right— PHILIP again gives SIR TIMOTHY a vigorous hand-shake. SIR TIMOTHY responds to it disconsolately, and is following PHILIP into the vestibule when he hears OTTOLINE call to him.] Sir Tim!

SIR TIMOTHY.

[Turning.] Hallo!

OTTOLINE.

[Lightly.] Is your car here?

SIR TIMOTHY.

[Brightening.] It is.

OTTOLINE.

You may give me a lift to Bond Street, if your business with your lawyers won't keep you long.

SIR TIMOTHY.

[Emphatically.] It will not. [Beaming.] I told you a lie. I've no business with my lawyers. I came here expressly to improve my acquaintance with the man who's to be your husband, and for no other purpose.

[They all laugh merrily.

OTTOLINE.

Ha, ha, ha! [To SIR TIMOTHY.] Wait for me in South Square, then. I sha'n't be many minutes.

SIR TIMOTHY.

[Going into the vestibule.] Ah, I'd wait an eternity!

[PHILIP and SIR TIMOTHY shake hands once more, and then PHILIP lets SIR TIMOTHY out.

PHILIP.

[As he shuts the outer door.] By George, he's a splendid chap! [He comes back into the room, closes the vestibule door, and advances to OTTOLINE and stands before her humbly.] Oh, Ottoline—oh, my dear girl! Shall I go down on my knees to you?

OTTOLINE.

[In a subdued tone.] If you do, I shall have to kneel to you, Phil.

PHILIP.

[Slowly folding her in his arms.] Ah! Ah! Ah! [In her ear.] What a night I've spent!

OTTOLINE.

[Almost inaudibly.] And I!

[He seats her upon the settee on the right and sits beside her, linking his hand in hers.

PHILIP.

How merciful this is of you! I've just sent you a letter by Robbie Roope, begging you to see me; you've missed him. [Smiling.] It isn't as eloquent as some I started writing at five o'clock this morning. Would you like to hear it? [She nods. He recites his note tenderly.] "Forgive me. I forgive you. When may I come to you?" That's all.

OTTOLINE.

Isn't that eloquent, Phil?

PHILIP.

[Smiling again.] It's concise—and as long as you forgive me—[eyeing her with a shadow of fear] you're sure you've forgiven me?

OTTOLINE.

Sure.

PHILIP.

[Persistently.] Without reserve?

OTTOLINE.

Should I be here—[indicating their proximity] and here—if I hadn't?

PHILIP.

[Pressing her hand to his lips ardently, and then freeing her shoulders from her coat.] Take this off——

OTTOLINE.

[Gently resisting.] Poor Sir Timothy——!

PHILIP.

[In high spirits.] Oh, a little exercise won't do Sir Timothy any harm! [Helping her to slip her arms out of her coat.] Dash it, you might have let me escort you to Bond Street!

OTTOLINE.

No, no; your work——

PHILIP.

[His brow clouding.] W-w-work——?

OTTOLINE.

You mustn't lose your morning's work.

[There is a short pause, and then he rises and moves a few steps away from her. With an impassive countenance, she fingers the buttons of her gloves.

PHILIP.

[Stroking the pattern of the carpet with his foot.] Otto——

OTTOLINE.

[Looking up.] Yes, Phil?

PHILIP.

I asked Robbie to tell you, if he had the opportunity, that I've decided to make my farewell salaam to authorship. I'm no good at it; I'm a frost; I realize it at last. I've had my final whack on the jaw; I've fought—how many rounds?—and now I take the count and slink out of the ring, beat. [Producing his keys, he goes to the cabinet on the right, unlocks it, and selects from several cardboard portfolios one which he carries to the writing-table. While he is doing this, OTTOLINE—still with an expressionless face—rises and moves to the left, where she stands watching him. He opens the portfolio and, with a pained look, handles the sheets of manuscript in it.] Ha! You and I have often talked over this, haven't we, Otto?

OTTOLINE.

[Calmly.] Often.

PHILIP.

[Taking the manuscript from the portfolio—thoughtfully.] It was to have been—oh, such an advance on my previous stuff—kindlier, less strenuous, more urbane! Success—success!—had sweetened the gall in me! [Glancing at a partly covered page.] Here's where I broke off yesterday. [With a shrug.] In every man's life there's a chapter uncompleted, in one form or another! [Throwing the manuscript into the portfolio.] Pst! Get back to your hole; I'll burn you later on. [He rejoins her. She half turns from him, averting her head.] So end my pitiful strivings and ambitions! [Laying his hand on her shoulder.] Ah, it's a miserable match you're making, Ottoline! My two-hundred-a-year will rig me out suitably, and provide me with tobacco; and the dribblets coming to me from my old books—through the honest publishers I deserted for Mr. Titterton!—the dribblets coming from my old books will enable me to present you with a nosegay on the anniversaries of our wedding-day, and—by the time your hair's white—to refund you the money Titterton's had from you. And there—with a little fame unjustly won, which, thank God, 'll soon die!—there you have the sum of my possessions! [Seizing her arms and twisting her round.] Oh, but I'll be your mate, my dear—your loyal companion and protector—comrade and lover——!

[He is about to embrace her again, but she keeps him off by placing her hands against his breast.

OTTOLINE.

[Steeling herself.] Phil——

PHILIP.

[Unsuspectingly.] Eh?

OTTOLINE.

I arrived at a decision during the night too, Phil.

PHILIP.

Yes?

OTTOLINE.

Don't—don't loathe me. [Shaking her head gravely.] I am not going to marry you.

PHILIP.

[Staring at her.] You're not going to—marry me?

OTTOLINE.

No, Philip.

PHILIP.

[After another pause.] You—you're overwrought, Otto; you've had no sleep. Neither of us has had any sleep——

OTTOLINE.

Oh, but I'm quite clearheaded——

PHILIP.

[Bewildered.] Why, just now you said you'd forgiven me—repeated it——!

OTTOLINE.

I do repeat it. If I've anything to forgive, I forgive you a thousand times——

PHILIP.

And you allowed me to—to take you in my arms——

OTTOLINE.

You shall take me in your arms again, Phil, once more, before we part, if you wish to. I'm not a girl, though you call me one——

PHILIP.

[Sternly.] Look here! You don't imagine for an instant that I shall accept this! You——!

OTTOLINE.

Ssh! Try not to be hasty; try to be reasonable. Listen to me——

PHILIP.

You—you mean me to understand that, in consequence of this wretched Titterton affair, you've changed your mind, and intend to chuck me!

OTTOLINE.

Yes, I mean you to understand that.

PHILIP.

[Turning from her indignantly.] Oh——!

OTTOLINE.

[Sitting in the chair by the smoking-table.] Philip—Philip—[He hesitates, then seats himself on the settee opposite to her. She speaks with great firmness and deliberation.] Philip, while you were lying awake last night, or walking about your room, didn't you—think?

PHILIP.

[Hotly.] Think——!

OTTOLINE.

No, no—soberly, steadily, searchingly. Evidently not, cher ami! [Bending forward.] Phil, after what has happened, can't you see me as I really am?

PHILIP.

As you—are?

OTTOLINE.

An incurably vulgar woman. An incurably common, vulgar woman. Nobody but a woman whose vulgarity is past praying for could have conceived such a scheme as I planned and carried out with that man Clifford Titterton—nobody. This—how shall I term it?—this refinement of mine is merely on the surface. We women are like the—what's the name of the little reptile?—the chameleon, isn't it? We catch the colour of our surroundings. But what we were, we continue to be—in the grain. The vulgar-minded Ottoline Filson, who captivated, and disgusted, you in Paris is before you at this moment. The only difference is that then she was a natural person, and now she plays les grands roles. [Sitting upright and pressing her temples.] Oh, I have fooled myself as well as you, Phil—deluded myself——!

PHILIP.

You're dog-tired, Otto. Your brain's in a fever. All you've done, you've done from your love for me, my dear—your deep, passionate love——

OTTOLINE.

[Wincing.] Passionate love—parfaitement! [Looking at him.] But that feeling's over, Phil.

PHILIP.

Over?

OTTOLINE.

[Simply.] I shall always love you—always—always; but my passion exhausted itself last night. For months it has borne me along on a wave. It was that that swept me to the door of Titterton's office in Charles Street, Adelphi; it was strong enough to drive me to any length. But last night, in those dreadful small hours, the wave beat itself out, and threw me up on to the rocks, and left me shivering—naked—ashamed—[drawing a deep breath] ah, but in my right senses!

[She unbuttons her left-hand glove, rolls the hand of the glove over her wrist, and takes her engagement-ring from her finger.

PHILIP.

[Aghast.] Otto! Otto! What are you doing! What are you doing! [She lays the ring carefully upon the smoking-table and rises and walks away. He rises with her, following her.] To-morrow—when you've had some sleep—to-morrow——

OTTOLINE.

Never. Don't deceive yourself, Philip. [Going to the fireplace.] If anything was needed to strengthen my resolution, the announcement you've just made would supply it.

PHILIP.

[On the left.] Announcement?

OTTOLINE.

With regard to your literary work. [Turning to him.] Ne voyez-vous pas! I have begun to degrade you already!

PHILIP.

[Consciously.] Degrade me?

OTTOLINE.

Degrade you. If I hadn't come into your life again, you would have accepted your reverse—your failure to gain popularity by your latest book—as you've accepted similar disappointments—with a shrug and a confident snap of your fingers. [Advancing.] But I've humbled you—bruised your spirit—shaken your courage; and now you express your willingness—you!—to throw your pen aside, and tack yourself to my skirts, and to figure meekly for the rest of your existence as "Mrs. Mackworth's husband"! [At the nearer end of the writing-table.] Mon Dieu! This is what I have brought you to!

PHILIP.

[Biting his lip.] You—you wouldn't have me profit by the advertisement I've got out of "The Big Drum," Ottoline—[ironically] the finest advertisement I could wish for, according to Robbie! You wouldn't have me sink as low as that?

OTTOLINE.

You can write under an alias—a nom de plume—until you've won your proper place——

PHILIP.

[Uneasily.] Oh, well—perhaps—by-and-by—when we had settled down, you and I—and things had adjusted themselves——

OTTOLINE.

Yes, when you'd grown sick and weary of your new environment, and had had time to reflect on the horrid trick I'd employed to get hold of you, and had learned to despise me for it, you'd creep back to your desk and make an effort to pick up the broken threads! [Coming to the settee on the right.] Eh bien! Do you know what would happen then, Phil?

PHILIP.

W-w-what?

OTTOLINE.

[Intensely.] I should puff you, under the rose—quietly pull the strings—use all the influence I could rake up——

PHILIP.

No, no——

OTTOLINE.

I should. It's in my blood. I couldn't resist it. Whether you wrote as Jones, or Smith, or Robinson, you'd find Jones, Smith, or Robinson artfully puffed and paragraphed and thrust under people's noses in the papers. I'm an incurably vulgar woman, I tell you! [Snatching at her coat—harshly.] Ah, que je me connais; que je me connais!

[She fumbles for the arm-holes of her coat. He goes to her quickly and they stand holding the coat between them and looking at each other.

PHILIP.

[After a silence.] You—you're determined?

OTTOLINE.

Determined.

PHILIP.

You—you can't be!

Ottoline.

I am—I swear I am.

PHILIP.

[After a further silence.] Then it is—as you said last night——?

OTTOLINE.

What did I say last night? I forget.

PHILIP.

[In a husky voice.] C'est fini—apres tout!

OTTOLINE.

[Inclining her head.] C'est fini—apres tout.

PHILIP.

[Bitterly.] Ho! Ho, ho, ho! [Another pause.] So when—when April comes—we—we sha'n't——!

OTTOLINE.

[Lowering her eyes—all gentleness again.] We sha'n't walk under the trees in the Champs-Elysees, Phil——

PHILIP.

Nor in the Allee de Longchamp—where we——

OTTOLINE.

No, nor in the Allee de Longchamp.

PHILIP.

[Releasing her coat and thrusting his hands into his trouser-pockets.] Somebody else'll gulp the milk at the Cafe d'Armenonville——!

OTTOLINE.

And at the Pre-Catalan——

PHILIP.

And there'll be no one to gaze sentimentally at my old windows in the Rue Soufflot——

OTTOLINE.

[Softly.] Quarante-trois bis. [Sighing.] No one.

PHILIP.

[With a hollow laugh.] Ha, ha, ha! C'est fini—apres tout!

OTTOLINE.

[Firmly.] C'est fini—apres tout. [She holds out her coat to him and he helps her into it. Suddenly, while her back is turned to him, he utters a guttural cry and grips her shoulders savagely. She turns in surprise, her hand to her shoulder.] Oh, Phil——!

PHILIP.

[Pointing at her.] I see! I see! I see the end of it! You'll marry Barradell! You'll marry the fellow who's cooling his heels down below in South Square!

OTTOLINE.

[Placidly, fastening her coat.] I may.

PHILIP.

[Choking.] Oh——!

OTTOLINE.

I may, if I marry at all—and he bothers any more about me.

PHILIP.

[Stamping up and down.] Bacon Barradell! Bacon Barradell! The wife of Bacon Barradell!

OTTOLINE.

[With a sad smile.] He has social aims; a vulgar, pushing woman would be a serviceable partner for Sir Tim.

PHILIP.

Oh! Oh—! [Dropping on to the settee on the left and burying his face in his hands.] Ho, well, more power to him! He can sell his bacon; I—I can't sell my books!

[Again there is a silence, and then, putting on her left-hand glove, she goes to PHILIP and stands over him compassionately.

OTTOLINE.

Mon pauvre Philippe, it's you, not I, who will take another view of things to-morrow. [He makes a gesture of dissent.] Ah, come, come, come! You have never loved me as I have loved you. Unconsciously—without perceiving it—one may be half a poseuse; but at least I've been sincere in my love for you, and in hungering to be your wife. [Giving him her right hand.] You're the best I've ever known, dear; by far the best I've ever known. [He presses her hand to his brow convulsively.] But when we had our talk in South Audley Street, how did you serve me? You insisted on my waiting—waiting; I who had cherished your image in my mind for years! You guessed I shouldn't have patience—you almost prophesied as much; but still—I was to wait!

PHILIP.

[Inarticulately.] Oh, Otto!

OTTOLINE.

[Withdrawing her hand.] What did that show, Phil? It showed—as your compromise with mother and Dad showed afterwards—that the success of the book you were engaged upon came first with you; that marrying me was to be only an incident in your career; that you didn't love me sufficiently to bend your pride or vary your programme a jot. [He gets to his feet, startled, dumbfoundered. He attempts to speak, but she checks him.] H'sh! H'sh! I'm scolding you; but, for your sake, I wouldn't have it otherwise. Now that I'm sane and cool, I wouldn't have it otherwise.

PHILIP.

[Struggling for words—thickly.] Ottoline—Ottoline—[his voice dying away] I——!

OTTOLINE.

[Taking his hands in hers.] Good-bye. Don't come downstairs with me. Let me leave you sitting at your table, at work—at work on that incomplete chapter. We shall tumble up against one another, I dare say, at odd times, but this is the last we shall see of each other dans l'intimite; and I want to print on my memory the sight of you—[pointing to the writing-table] there—keeping your flag flying. [Putting her arms round him—in a whisper.] Keep your flag flying, Philip! Don't—don't sulk with your art, and be false to yourself, because a trumpery woman has fretted and disturbed you. Keep your flag flying—[kissing him] my—my dear hero!

[She untwines her arms and steps back. Slowly, with his hands hanging loosely, and his chin upon his breast, PHILIP passes her and goes to the writing-table. There, dully and mechanically, he takes the unfinished page of manuscript from the portfolio, arranges it upon the blotting-pad and, seating himself at the table, picks up his pen. Very softly OTTOLINE opens the vestibule door, gives PHILIP a last look over her shoulder, and enters the vestibule, closing the door behind her. There is a pause, during which PHILIP sits staring at his inkstand, and then the outer door slams. With an exclamation, PHILIP drops his pen, leaps up, and rushes to the vestibule door.

PHILIP.

Otto! Otto! [Loudly.] Ottoline——!

[With his hand on the door-handle, he wavers, his eyes shifting wildly to and from the writing-table. Then, with a mighty effort, he pulls himself together, strides to the smoking-table, and loads and lights his pipe. Puffing at his pipe fiercely, he reseats himself before his manuscript and, grabbing his pen, forces himself to write. He has written a word or two when he falters—stops—and lays his head upon his arm on the table.

PHILIP.

[His shoulders heaving.] Oh, Otto—Otto——!

THE END

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