 Act 2, Part 2 of The Big Drum by Arthur Wing Pinero This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Act 2, Part 2. Sir Randall returns with a solemn countenance. He closes the door and comes forward. Sir Randall to Lady Philson. A melancholy morning, Winnie. Sir Randall, producing a black-edged pocket-hank chief and unfolding it. Oh, MacFarlane! And then this! Blowing his nose. Obserting. Obserting. Glancing at Bertram. Does Bertram? I've told him. My dear father, I cannot. I cannot profess to regret my sister's decision. I mean to say. Nor I. In a nightburst, placing the room. Nor I. I must be candid. It's my nature to be candid. A damn tradesman. Exactly. It shows my sister's delicacy and refinement, I mean to say. Sir Randall to Lady Philson, halting. Ooh, in your opinion, Winnie. I am inclined to think it's Mr. Delacour. Sir Randall, resuming his walk. So be it. Raising his arms. If I am to lose my child a second time, so be it. I venture to suggest it may be Edward Trefusis. Sir Randall to Bertram halting again. My dear boy, in a matter of this kind, I fancy we can rely on your mother's wonderful powers of penetration. Bertram, bowing. Pardon, father. Lady Philson, closing her eyes. Mrs. George Delacour. Sir Randall, partly closing his eyes and again resuming his walk. Our marriage is arranged, and more shortly take place between George Holmby Delacour of... of... of... Bertram, closing his eyes. Ninety, St. Jane Street. Sir Randall halting and opening his eyes. One thing I heartily deplore, Winifred. Lady Philson opening her eyes. What is that, Randall? Auto-line being a widow, there can be no bridesmaids, which deprives us of the happiness of paying a pretty compliment to the daughters of several families of distinction whom we have the privilege of numbering among our acquaintances. There can be no bridesmaids strictly speaking, but a widow may be accompanied to the altar by a bevy of maids of honour. Ah, yes. An equally good opportunity for an imposing... Closing his eyes. ...and reverential display. To Lady Philson. Lady Mondrell's girl Sybil, eh, Winnie? Decidedly, and Lady Eva sharing him. Lady Lillian and Lady Constance Fox. Lady Irene Barlandt. Lady Philson rises and almost runs to the writing table, where she sits and snatches a tissue to paper. Sir Randall follows her and stands beside her. Bertram reclining upon the city on the left. Lady Blanche finish. Lady Philson seizing her pen. Wait, don't be so quick. Writing. Honourable Sybil Mondrell. The glazed door is open softly, and Ottoline enters. She pauses, looking at the group at the writing table. Sir Randall to Lady Philson as she writes. Lady Eva sharing him. Lady Lillian and Constance Fox. Lady Philson writing. Lady Eva sharing him. Lady Lillian and Constance Fox. Lady Irene Palant. I pray there may be no capious opposition from Ottoline. Surely she doesn't want to be married like a middle-class widow from Putney. Writing. Lady Blanche finish. If pages are permissible, to carry my sister's train I mean to see. Pages. Yes, yes. There are the two Galbraith boys. Little Lord Wensley Dale and his brother Herbert. Lady Philson writing. Such picturesque children. I doubt whether the bearish abilities which have passed between ourselves and Lord and Lady Galbraith. Dear country neighbours. No harm in approaching them, my dear father. I mean to say. Ottoline shuts the door with a click. Sir Randall and Lady Philson turn, startled, and Lady Philson slips the list into a draw. Otto. Sorry to disturb you all over your elaborate preparations, Dad. I see Sir Timothy has saved me the trouble of breaking the news. You? Ottoline nodding. You were too absorbed. I couldn't help listening. Ahem. Sir Timothy didn't volunteer the information ought to line. Peermenpot. Advancing, smiling on one side of her mouth. What a grand wedding you are planning for me. Quel projet mérifique? Your dear mother was merely jotting down. Ottoline passing her hands over her face and walking to the satis on the right. Lady Philson rising and moving to the fireplace complainingly. Really Ottoline? Ottoline sitting upon the satis. Lady Philson to Bertram who is slowly getting to his feet. Go away Bertie darling. Mais pourquoi? Bertie knows everything obviously. Why shouldn't he Otto? Your brother is as interested as we are. But of course, natural more. With a shrug. C'est une affaire de famille. To Bertram who is now at the door on the left, his hand on the door handle. Come back Bertie. Repeating her rise smile. I shall be glad to receive your congratulations with mothers and dads. To Sir Randall and Lady Philson. Sit down dad. Sit down mother. Sir Randall sits in the chair on the left of the satis on the right. Lady Philson in the low-backed armchair and Bertram at the oblong table. Are you very much surprised dear people? Surprised? Hardly. Poor Sir Timothy. No, we are hardly surprised Ottoline. But I don't mean surprised at my having made Sir Timothy unhappy. I mean surprised at hearing there is someone else. My dear child, that surprises us even less. Your dear father and I Ottoline are not unaware of the many eligible men who are, how shall I put it, pursuing you with their attentions? Parents are notoriously short-sighted. But they are not necessarily. What are the things? Tish, the creatures that flutter. Bats father. Thank you my boy. It's cowardly of me perhaps. But I almost wish I had told Sir Timothy a little more. Cowardly? So that he might have taken the edge off the announcement I'm going to make and spared me. The edge? Spare you? Staring at Ottoline. Ottoline? What on earth? I know I'm behaving as if I were a girl instead of a woman who has been married. A widow, free, independent. To Sir Randall. Thanks to your liberality dad. But being at home I seem to have lost in a measure my sense of personal liberty. Sir Randall, blandly but uneasily. My child. That's it, child. Now that I've returned to you, I'm still a child. Still an object for you to fix your hopes and expectations upon. The situation has slipped back in your minds pretty much to what it was in the old days in the Avenue Montaignee. You may protest that it isn't so, but it is. Attempting a laugh. That's why my knees are shaking at this moment. My spine's all a bit jelly. She rises and goes to the chair at the writing table and grips the chair rail. The others follow her apprehensively with their eyes. I'm afraid. I'm about to disappoint you. How? Disappoint us? What's the time, dad? Sir Randall, looking at a clock standing on a commode against the wall on the right. Twenty minutes past eleven. 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 under hand. Hrion, desecrate. Asked whom? Otterling, throwing a head back. You'll think I'm ushering in an endless string of lovers this morning. I promise you this is the last. Who is coming? Otterling, sitting at the writing table and her elbows at the table, supporting her chin on her fists. Mr. Macworth. Macworth. Philip Macworth. Isn't he the journalist man you... you carried on with once in Paris? What an expression, mother. Well, yes. Good God. He doesn't write for the papers any longer. What? A novelist, chiefly. Oh. Successful? Depends on what you call success. I call success what everybody calls success. Bertram, rising stricken. There are novelists and novelists, I mean to say. 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 Philson, searching for her hank chief. Where... where have you...? I met him yesterday at Robbie Roops at lunch. Lady Philson finds a hank chief and applies it to her eyes. There's no need to cry, mother dear, for mercy's sake. Oh, Otto. Rising and crossing to the settee on the right, whimpering. To Bertram, who comes to her. Oh, my boy. Sir Randall, gazing blinkingly at the ceiling as Lady Philson sinks upon the settee. Incredible. Incredible. Bertram, sitting beside Lady Philson, dazed. My dear mother. Ottoline, starting up. Oh, do try to be understanding and sympathetic. Mr. McWeth is a high-sold, noble 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 Randall raising his hands. Romance? Lady Philson to Sir Randall and Bertram. Just now she was resenting our considering her a child. Ottoline, looking down upon the flowers in the great. Romance doesn't belong to youth, mother. Youth is greedy for reality. The toy that feels solid in the 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. Ah, an extract from a novel of Mr. McWeth's, apparently. Ottoline, turning sharply and coming forward. Shh, 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 de l'évée et de grand. Tenez, que vous plaisez un nom? She is checked by the entrance of Underwood from the Hall. Underwood, addressing the back of Lady Philson's head. Mr. Philip McWeth, my lady. Lady Philson, straightening herself. Not for me. For Madame de Chaumier. I beg pardon, my 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, ma'am. Underwood, withdrawals. Ottoline, approaching Sir Randall and Lady Philson. Dad, mother? 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 Randall. Dad? Sir Randall, rising. Impossible. Impossible. Marching to the fireplace. I cannot act apart from your dear mother. He's back to the fireplace, virtuously. I never act apart from your dear mother. Comme vous vous trouvez. Moving to the glazed door and there, pausing. You won't? Sir Randall blinks at the ceiling again. Lady Philson scribbles audibly with a scratchy pen. Ottoline goes out, closing the door. Bertram, jumping up as the door shuts. Good heavens, my dear father. My dear mother. Sir Randall, coming to us. Eh? My sister will pack her trunks and be off to a hotel if you're not careful. She won't stand this, I mean to say. There'll be a marriage at the registrar's or some ghastly proceeding, a scandal, all kinds of gossip. Lady Philson, throwing down her pen and rising, holding her heart. Oh, I mean to say. Winnie. Sir Randall, biting his nails. He's right. Bertram hastens to the glazed door. Dear Bertram is right. Bertram, opening the door. You see him? Yes. Yes. Bertram disappears. Sir Randall paces the room at the back, waving his arms. Oh, oh. Lady Philson going to the fireplace. I won't be civil to him, Randall. The impertinence of his visit. I won't be civil to him. A calamity. An unmerited calamity. Lady Philson dropping on to the settee before the fireplace. She's mad. That's the only excuse I can make for her. Stark mad. A calamity. You remembered men. Sir Randall taking a book from the rack on the oblong table and hurriedly turning its pages. A supercilious patronising person. Son of a wretched country parson, used to lull against the wall of your salon with his nose in the air. A stroke of bad fortune at last, Randall. Fancy. Everything has always gone so well with us. Oh. Lady Philson over her shoulder. What is it? I can't bear much more. He isn't even in who's who, Winnie. Bertram returns out of breath. I got her on the stairs. Closing the door. She'll bring him down. I won't be civil to him. I refuse to be civil to him. Sir Randall replacing the book in the rack and sitting at the chair at the oblong table. Groaning again. Oh. There is a short silence. Bertram slowly advances, pulling his hand across his brow. Of course, my dear father. My dear mother. We must do our utmost to quash it. Strain every nerve, I mean to say, to stop my sister from committing the stupendous act of folly. Lady Philson rocking herself to and fro. A beggarly author. Bertram, the picture of dejection. But if the worst comes to the worst, if she's obtrit, I mean to say, an alliance between society and literature, I suppose there's no actual disgrace in it. A doffer. A doffer whose trash doesn't sell. Taking advantage of a silly emotional woman to feather his nest. Sir Randall 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 to say, why the function should be a shabby one. Lady Philson, rising and moving about at the back, distractedly. That it shan'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 Randall, bitterly with wild gestures. The interesting engagement is announced of Mr. Mr. Bertram wandering to the fireplace his chin on his breast. Philip father. Mr. Phillip Mackworth, the well-known novelist to Otterline, widow of the late Comte de Chamier. Peeping into the hall through the side of one of the curtains of the glazed door. Only daughter of Sir Randall and Lady Philson. Mrs. Philip Mackworth. Mrs. Philip, nobody. Bertram joining her. Perhaps it would be wise a mother for me to retire while the interviewer takes place. Lady Philson falling upon his neck. Oh, my dear boy. Sir Randall getting away from the door. They are coming. Bertram, quickly. I'm near you if you want me, I mean to say. He goes out at the door on the left. Lady Philson hastily resumes her seat at the writing table and Sir Randall pulling himself together crosses to the fireplace. The glazed door opens and Otterline appears with Philip. Mr. Mackworth, mother, dad. Philip advancing to Lady Philson cordially. How do you do, Lady Philson? Lady Philson, giving him a reluctant hand and eyeing him as scance with mingled aversion and indignation. How do you do? This is very good of you. Bowing to Sir Randall. How are you, Sir Randall? Sir Randall, his head in the air. How do you do, Mr. Mackworth? Philip breaking the ice. We meet after many years. Many. Lady Philson, still examining Philip. Many. And if you've ever bestowed a thought on me since the old Paris days, in a way you can scarcely have expected. Lady Philson, turning to the writing table to conceal her repugnance. Scarcely. Scarcely. Philip to Sir Randall. Oh, I'm not vain enough, Sir Randall, to flatter myself that what you have heard from Adeline gives you and Lady Philson unmixed pleasure. On the contrary. Pleasure. Unable to repress herself. Unmixed. Sir Randall restraining her. Winner of red. Otterline coming to Lady Philson and touching her gently. Mother. Philip smiling at Otterline apologetically. That's my fault. I provoked that. Walking away to the right. I express myself rather clumsily, I'm afraid. Sir Randall expanding his chest and advancing to Philip. I gather from my daughter, Mr. Mackworth, that you are here for the purpose of explaining your position in relation to her. I believe I quote her words accurately. Otterline moving to the fireplace. Yes, Dad. That is so, Sir Randall, if you and Lady Philson will have the patience. Sir Randall motions Philip to the setee on the right. Philip sits. Then Otterline sits on the setee before the fireplace and Sir Randall in the armchair by Philip. Lady Philson turns in her chair to listen. Before you embark upon your explanation, permit me to define my position, mine and Lady Philson's. Philip nods. I am going to make a confession to you and I should like to feel that I am making it as one gentleman to another. Philip nods again. Mr. Mackworth, Lady Philson and I are ambitious people. Not for ourselves. For ourselves all we desire is rest and retirement. Closing his eyes. If it were possible obscurity. But where our children are concerned, it is difficult, and to be frank, I must be frank, we had hoped that in the event of Otterline remarrying she would contract such a marriage as is commonly described as brilliant. Such a marriage as her marriage to Monsieur Deschelmiers, for example? Sir Randall closing his eyes. There more to ease, Mr. Mackworth. I must decline. I merely wished as a basis of argument to get at your exact interpretation of brilliancy. Sir Randall dismissing the point with a wave of his hand. It is easy for you, therefore, as you have already intimated, to judge what are our sensations at receiving my daughter's communication. Philip nodding. They are distinctly disagreeable. Sir Randall conscientiously. They are. I won't exaggerate. I mustn't exaggerate. They are not far removed from dismay. Utter dismay. Sir Randall shifting his chair to Philip. I learn, I learn from Otterline, that you have forsaken the field of journalism, Mr. Mackworth, and now devote yourself exclusively to creative work. Another nod from Philip. But you have not, to use my daughter's phrase, up to the present, er... Philip nursing his leg. Please, go on. You have not been eminently successful. Not yet. Not with a wide public. No. Not yet. Forgive me. Any private resources? None worth mentioning. Two hundred a year left me by an old aunt. Lady Philson under her breath. Sir Randall to her. My dear. To Philip. On the other hand, Mr. Mackworth, as you are probably aware, my daughter is... No, I won't say a rich woman. I will say comfortably provided for. Not by the late Compteur Chamier, but by myself. Closing his eyes. I have never been a niggardly parent, Mr. Mackworth. Otterline softly without turning. Indeed, no, Dad. Philip to Sir Randall bluntly. Yes. I do know of the settlement you made upon Otterline on her marriage, and of your having supplemented it when she became a widow. Very handsome of you. Sir Randall leaning back in his chair. There, then, my dear Mr. Mackworth, is the state of the case. Otterline is beyond our control. Unhappily. If she will deal this crushing blow to her mother and myself, we must bow our heads to it. But for the sake of your self-esteem, I beg you to reflect. Partly to Philip. Partly at Otterline. What construction would be put upon a union between you and Madame de Chamier? Between a lady of means and... I must be cruel. I must be brutal. A man who is, commercially at least, a failure. There could only be one construction put upon it. Otterline rising. Mother. Philip to Sir Randall. Oh, but, um, Otterline hasn't told you. No, I hadn't time, Philip. My dear Sir Randall. Rising and going to Lady Philson. My dear Lady Philson, let me dispel your anxiety for the preservation of my self-esteem. Otterline and I have no idea of getting married yet to a while. No, Mother. When pray? We have agreed to wait until I have ceased to be... commercially a failure. Until he has obtained public recognition. Coming forward. Until, in fact, even the members of one's own family, Dad, can't impute unworthy motives. Sir Randall to Philip incredulously. Rising. Until you have obtained public recognition, Mr. Mackworth. Philip smiling. Well, it may sound extravagant. Grotesque. Sir Randall, walking about on the extreme right. Amazing. Why, Grotesque? Why amazing? Sitting in the low-backed armchair. All that is amazing about it is that Philip should lack the superior courage which enables a man in special circumstances to sink his pride and ignore ill-natured comments. Philip to Lady Philson. At any rate, this is the arrangement that Otterline and I have entered into. And I suggest, with every respect, that you and Sir Randall should raise no obstacle to my seeinger under your roof occasionally. As being preferable to whole-and-corner meetings in friends' houses. Otterline, coolly. Or under lampposts in the streets. Yes, Mother. Lady Philson, rising and crossing to the round table. Otterline! Sir Randall, bearing down upon Philip. May I ask, Mr. Mackworth, how long you have been following your precarious profession? Pardon my ignorance. My reading is confined to our great journals. And there your name has escaped me. Oh, I've been at it for nearly ten years. Ten years? I began soon after I left Paris. And what ground, sir, have you for anticipating that you will ever achieve popularity as a writer? Lady Philson, sitting in the chair by the round table. Oh, preposterous! Otterline stamping her foot. Mother! To Sir Randall. Philip has high expectations of his next novel, Dad. It is to be published in the autumn, September. And should that prove no more successful with the wide public than those which have preceded it? Then I... then I fling another at him. Which would occupy you? Twelve months. And if that fails... Philip, smiling again, but rather constrainedly. You travel too quickly for me, Lady Philson. You answer, Randall. You heap disaster on disaster. If that fails, another twelve months' labor. While my daughter is wasting the best years of her life. Really, Mr. McWorth? Thrying himself upon the settee on the right. Really? I appeal to you. Is this fair? Is it fair to Otterline? Absolument. So that it satisfies me to spend the best years of my life in this manner. I don't see what anybody has to complain of. My dear, I am relieved to think that some of my best years are still mined as squander. Sir Randall, to Philip, who is standing by the writing-table in thought, a look of disquiet on his face... persistently. Mr. McWorth? Otterline, rising impatiently. My dear dad, my dear mother, I propose that we postpone this discussion until Mr. McWorth's new book has failed to attract the public. Crossing to Sir Randall. In the meantime, he shan't be scowled at when he presents himself in Ennisport Gardens. Seating herself beside Sir Randall and slipping her arm through his. Dad? Mr. McWorth. Philip, rising himself and turning to Sir Randall and Lady Philson. Abruptly. Look here, Sir Randall. Look here, Lady Philson. I own that this arrangement between Otterline and me is an odd one. It was arrived at yesterday impulsively, and, in her interest, there is a good deal to be said against it. There's nothing to be said for it. Winifred? Well, Mr. McWorth? Well, Sir Randall, I... I'm prepared to take a sporting chance. It may be that I am misled by the sanguine temperament of the artist who is apt to believe that his latest production will shake the earth to its foundation. I've gammoned myself before into such a belief, but... Resolutely. I'll stake everything on my next book. I give you my word that if it isn't a success, an indisputable popular success, I will join you both in all sincerity in urging Otterline to break with me. Come. Does that molify you? There is a short silence. Sir Randall and Lady Philson look at each other in surprise, and Otterline stares at Philip, open-mouthed. Philip? Sir Randall? Winnie? It certainly seems to me that Mr. McWorth undertaking as far as it goes... As far as it goes, Mother. Rising thoughtfully. Doesn't it go a little too far? Contracting her brows. It disposes of me as if I were of no more account than a samba star. To Philip. Ha, traitor. Vous promets que ton farm s'en va l'heure. Philip, taking her hands reassuringly. No. No. Otterline withdrawing her hands. Zut. Moving slowly towards the glazed door. You have acquitted yourself bravely, Monsieur Philip. Shrugging her shoulders. Say goodbye, and let me turn you out in disgrace. Ha, ha, ha. Goodbye, Lady Philson. She rises and shakes hands with him. Have I bought my right of entree? I may ring your bell at discreet intervals till the end of the season. Otterline is her own mistress, Mr. Mcworth. But apart from her, you will receive a card from me. Music. Tuesday, July the 8th. He bows, and she crosses to the fireplace. Then he shakes hands with Sir Randall, who has risen, and is standing in the middle of the room. Goodbye. Sir Randall, detaining Philip, searchingly. Pardon me. This new novel of yours, on which you play so much reliance, a prey don't thank me curious. Otterline, suddenly. Coming to the back of the settee on the right, her eyes gleaming scornfully at Sir Randall. Tell my father, Philip. Tell him. Philip, shaking his head at her and frowning. I don't. Do, as you've told it to me yesterday. Help him to understand why your name has escaped him in the Great Journals. Any confidence you may repose in me, Mr. Mcworth? Otterline, prompting Philip. It's called, Allon racquant des doncs. Philip, after a further look of protest at Otterline, to Sir Randall, hesitatingly. It's called the Big Drum, Sir Randall. Sir Randall, elevating his eyebrows. The Big Drum? With an innocent hair. Military? No, social. Social? Philip, leaning against the armchair on the left of the settee on the right. It's an attempt to portray the struggle for notoriety. For self-advertisement, we see going on around us today. Ah, yes, lamentable. Philip, deliberately but losing himself in his subject as he proceeds. It shows a vast crowd of men and women, Sir, forcing themselves upon public attention without a shred of modesty. Fighting to obtain it is if they are fighting for bread and meat. It shows how dignity and reserve have been cast aside as virtues that are antiquated and outworn. Until half the world, the world that should be orderly, harmonious, beautiful, has become an arena for the exhibition of vulgar ostentation or almost superhuman egoism, a cockpit resounding with raucous voices bellowing one against the other. Sir Randall, closing his eyes. A terrible picture. Lady Philson, closing her eyes. Terrible! It shows the bishop and the judge playing to the gallery, the politician adopting the methods of the cheap jack, the duchess vying with a puffing draper, 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, shows how the ordinary decencies of life are sacrificed to the paragraphist, the interviewer, and the ghoul with a camera, how the home is stripped of its sanctity, blessed charity made a vehicle for display, the very graveyard 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 bomb, bomb, bomb is not for him. It shows... Checking himself and leaving the armchair with a short laugh. Oh, well, that's the setting of my story, Sir Randall. I won't inflict the details upon you. Uh, hmm. An excellent theme, Mr. Mackworth. A most promising theme. Hey, Winifred. Excellent. Quite, quite excellent. Philip, bowing to Lady Philson and going to Autaline. Thank you. Autaline, to Philip, glowingly. Splendid. Laying her hand upon his arm. You have purged your disgrace. You may come and see me tomorrow. Sir Randall, in response to a final bow from Philip. Goodbye. Goodbye. Autaline opens a glazed door and Philip follows her into the hall. Immediately the door is shut. Lady Philson hurries to Sir Randall. Winnie. That will never be a popular success, Randall. Never. An offensive book. A grossly offensive book. He... he'll keep his word. To join us in persuading her to drop him. If it fails. 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 gentlemen-like scruples. And... and she? I trust. I trust that my child's monstrous infatuation will have cooled down by the autumn. Lady Philson, supporting herself by the chair at the writing-table, a hand to a heart, exhausted. Oh, how dear. Sir Randall, returning to her. I conducted the affair with skill intact, Winneford. It was Master Lee. Master Lee. Ah. She sits at the writing-table again, and takes up her pen as Sir Randall stalks to the door on the left. Master Lee. Sir Randall, opening the door. Bertram. Bertram, my boy. Bertie. He disappears. Lady Philson scribbles violently. End of the second Act. Act III, Part I of The Big Drum by Arthur Wing Pinero. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The third Act. The scene represents two rooms, connected by a pair of wide doors in a set of residential chambers on the upper floor of a house in Grey's Inn. The further room is the dining room, the nearer room, a study. In the wall at the back of the dining room are two windows. In the right-hand wall is a door leading to the kitchen, and in the left-hand wall a door opens from a vestibule where, opposite this door, there is another door which gives on to the landing of the common stair. In the study, a door in the right-hand wall admits to a bedroom. In the wall facing the spectator is a door opening into the room from the vestibule, and beyond the door on the right, in a piece of wall cutting off the corner of the room, is the fireplace. A bright fire is burning. The rooms are wainscotted to the ceilings and have a decrepit old-world air, and the odds and ends of furniture, all characteristic of the dwelling of a poor, literary man of refined taste, are in keeping with the surroundings. In the dining room there are half a dozen chairs of various patterns, a sideboard or two, a corner cupboard, a grandfather-clock and a large round table. In the study, set out into the room at the same angle as the fireplace, is a writing-table. A chair stands at the writing-table, it's back to the fire, and in the front of the table is a well-worn settee. On the left of the settee is a smaller table, on which are an assortment of pipes, a box of cigars and another of cigarettes, a tobacco jar, an ashtray and a bowl of matches. And on the left of the table is a capacious armchair. There is an armchair on either side of the fireplace, and against the right-hand wall, on the nearest side of the bedroom door, is a cabinet. On the other side of the room, facing the bedroom door, there is a second settee, and behind the settee is an oblong table littered with books and magazines. At a little distance from this table stands an armchair, and against the wall at the back, on the left of the big doors, is a chair of a lighter sort. Also against the back wall, but on the left of the door opening from the vestibule, is a table with a telephone instrument upon it, and running along the left-hand wall is a dwarf bookcase, unglazed, packed with books which look as if they will be none the worse for being dusted and put in order. In the vestibule, against the wall on the right, there is a small table, on which are Phillips hats, caps and gloves, and an overcoat, and a man's cape are hanging on some pegs. It is late on a November afternoon. Curtains are drawn across the dining-room windows, and the room is lighted rather dimly by an electric lamp standing on a sideboard. A warm glow proceeds from the nearer right-hand corner as from a fire. The study is lighted by a couple of standard lamps and a library lamp on the writing table, and the vestibule by a lamp suspended from the ceiling. The big doors are open. Philip, a pipe in his mouth and wearing an old velvet jacket, is lying upon the settee on the right, reading a book by the light of the lamp on the writing table. In the dining-room, John and a waiter, the latter in his shirts' sleeves, are at the round table, unfolding a white tablecloth. John, a cheery little man in seedy clothes, to the waiter softly. Careful! Don't crease it! Philip, raising his eyes from his book. What's the time, John? Quarter to six, sir. Have my things come from the tailor's shed. John, laying the cloth with the aid of the waiter. Yes, sir, while you were dozing. Exstatically. They're lovely, sir. A bell rings in the vestibule. Look, that's the cook, sir. He bustles into the vestibule from the dining-room. There is a short pause, and he reappears, entering the study at the door opening from the vestibule, followed by Roup. It's Mr. Roup, sir. No. Throwing his book aside and jumping up. Why, Robbie? Roup, as they shake hands vigorously. My dear fellow! Return of the wanderer. When did you get back? Last night. Take your coat off, you old ruffian. Putting his pipe down. I am glad. Roup to John, who relieves him of his hat, overcoat, and neck-chief. How are you, John? Splendid, Mr. Roup. Beaming. Our new novel is such a success, sir. So Mr. Mackworth wrote and told me. Giving his gloves to John. Congratulate you, John. Depositing the hat, coat, et cetera, upon the settee on the left. Thank you, sir. Roup crossing to the fireplace, rubbing his hands as John retires to the dining-room. Oh, my dear Phil, this dreadful climate after the sunshine of the Largo Maggiore. Philip walking about and spouting in high spirits. Italia! Oh, Italia! Thou who has the fatal gift of beauty. So Loftus and Lady Glaisbrook were moving on to Rome, or I really believe I could have endured another month at their villa, bored as they are and dick-hine-cells. Looking towards the dining-room, where John and the waiter are now placing a handsome centrepiece of flowers upon the round table. Hello, dinner party, Phil. Dinner party? A banquet. To celebrate the success of the book? That and something more. This festival, sir, of the preparations for which you are a privileged spectator. Shut those doors, John. Yes, sir. Philip sitting in the chair on the left of the smoking-table as John closes the big doors. This festival, my dear Robbie. Glancing over his shoulder to assure himself that the doors are closed. This festival also celebrates my formal engagement to Madame de Chomier. Aha! Philip taking a cigarette from the box at his side. Adeline and I are to be married soon after Christmas. The civilised world is to be startled by the announcement on Monday. Roup advancing. My dear chap, I've never heard anything this has given me greater pleasure. Philip offers Roup the cigarette-box. No, I won't smoke. Seating himself upon the city on the right. When was it settled? Philip lighting his cigarette. The day before yesterday I got Titterton to write me a letter, Titterton, my publisher, certifying to the enormous sales of the book and sending on to Sir Randall Filsen. Nothing like documentary evidence, Robbie. Leaning back in his chair without stretched legs and exhaling a wreath of tobacco smoke. Twenty-five thousand copies, my boy, up to date and still going strong. Wonderful! The critics treated me generously enough, but it hung fire damnably at first. At one particularly hellish moment I could have sworn it wouldn't do more than my usual fifteen or eighteen hundred, and I cursed myself for having been such a besotted fool to pin my faith to it. Sitting upright. And then, suddenly, a rush, a tremendous rush. Twenty-four thousand went off in less than six weeks. Almost uncanny, eh? Touching the tobacco jar. No, Lord. Sometimes I think I've been putting opium into my pipe instead of this innocent backie. And then I shall wake up to the necessity of counting my pence again and apologizing to John for being in a rear with his wages. And Tititon's letter brought the Filsens round? Philip nodding. Brought them round, and I must say they've accomplished the change of attitude most graciously. Roup or raculally. Graciously or grudgingly they couldn't help themselves, dear excellent friend. As you had pledged yourself, in effect, to resign the lady if your book was a failure. It follows that they were bound to clasp you to their bosoms if it succeeded. I don't want to detract from the amiability of the Filsens for an instant. Anyhow, their opposition is at an end. And all is rosy. Rising and pacing the room. Master Bertram is a trifle blum in stand-offish, perhaps. But, Sir Randall, ha-ha-ha! Sir Randall has taken literature under his wing. Robbie from Chaucer to Kipling. In the person of his prospective son-in-law. You'd imagine to listen to him that to establish ties of relationship with a literary man has been his chief aim in life. Roup joking his head in the direction of the dining-room. And this is to be a family gathering? The first in the altered circumstances. I proposed a feast at a smart restaurant, but Sir Randall preferred the atmosphere which has conduced, as he puts it, to the creation of so many of my brilliant compositions. Behind the smoking-table, dropping the end of his cigarette into the astray. Gaily! Robbie, I've had a magnificent suit of joy-regs made for the occasion. Good! I rejoice to hear it, dear excellent friend. I hope it portends a wholesale order to your tailor of attention to show yourself in society again freely. With a laugh, Philip goes to the fireplace and stands looking into the fire. Begin leaving your cards at once. No more sulking in your tent. Rising and crossing to the other side of the room. You have arrived, my dear chap. I read your name in two papers in my cabin yesterday. Marching up and down. Your foot is on the ladder. You'll be fair to become a celebrity if you're not one already, and you're approaching marriage-shed seditional lustre on you. I envy you, Phil. I do positively. Philip, facing Rup. Of course. I shall be seen about with Adeline during our engagement. Afterwards. Rup, halting. Afterwards? Everything will depend on my wife. Relishing the word. My wife. She has rather lost her taste for society with a capital S, remember? Rup, testily. That was her mood last June when she was hipped and discontented. What a husband she could be proud of, surely! Philip, coming forward. As a matter of fact, Robbie, I'm inclined to agree with you. I've been staring into my fire, or out of my windows here. Jolly sight too much. Expanding his chest. You're refreshing to me to rub shoulders with people again for a bit. Smiling. Even to find myself the object of a little interest in curiosity. Dear excellent friend! You see, I'm not without my share of petty vanity. I'm consistent, though. Didn't I tell you in South Audley Street that I was as eager for fame as any man living if only I could win it in my own way? You did. I have won it my own way, haven't I? Hitting the palm of his hand with his fist. I've done what I determined to do, Robbie. What I knew I should do sooner or later. I've got there. Got there. By simple, honest means. Isn't it glorious? I admit. Oh, I don't pretend that there haven't been moments in my years of stress and struggle when I've been tempted to join the gaudy, cackling foul whose feathers I flatter myself I plucked pretty thoroughly in my book. But I've resisted the devil by prayers and fasting. And by George, sir, I wouldn't swap my modest victory for the vogue of the biggest boomster in England. Ha-ha! Whoop! Seizing Rup, unshaking him. Dare to preach your gospel to me now! You arch-apostle of quackery and self-advertisement. Rup peevishly releasing himself. Upon my word, Phil. The bell rings again. The cook. To Rup, seeing that he is putting on his muffler. Don't go. I must. Taking up his overcoat. I merely ran along to shake hands with you and I'm sorry I took the trouble. Philip helps him into his overcoat, laughingly. Thanks. Robbie. Rup, struggling with an obstinate sleeve. Hey. It's just struck me. Where are you dining tonight? At the Garrick with Huey Champion. Picking up his hat and gloves. He's getting horribly daft and tedious, but I had nothing better. Bother, Colonel Champion. I wish you could have dined with me. Rup, his hat on his head, drawing on his gloves. Dear excellent friend! I should be out of place. Rubbish! Your presence would be peculiar appropriate, my dear Robbie. Wasn't it you who brought Adeline and me together? God bless you. Observing that Rup is weakening. There's heaps of room for an extra chair. Everybody would be delighted. I could telephone to Huey. Excuseing myself. He didn't ask me till this afternoon. With an injured air. I resent a short notice. Philip, his eyes twinkling. Quite right. Mine short, too. That's different. Entirely. You'll come? If you're certain, the Philsons and Madame Duchemier. Certain. Following Rup to the door, admitting to the festival. Eight o'clock. Rup, opening the door. Charming. Won't you let John fetch you a taxi? Rup, shaking hands with Philip. No. I'll walk into Harbourn. In the doorway. Oh, by the way, I have a message for you, Phil. From whom? Baradale, of all people in the world. Philip, surprised. Sir Timothy? He's home. I crossed with him yesterday. We travelled in the same carriage from Dover. What's the message? He saw your book in my bag and began talking about you. He said he hadn't met you for years and that I was to give you his warm regards. Indeed. Rup, astutely. My impression is that he's heard rumours concerning you and Madame Duchemier while he's been away and that he's anxious to show he has no ill will. I suppose your calling so often in any small gardens has been remarked. Extremely civil of him, if that's the case. Decent sort of fellow, I recollect. Rup, going into the festival. Very, very. Poor chap. Rup, opening the outer door. Eight o'clock, dear excellent friend. Philip, at his elbow. Sharp. Rup, disappearing. Au revoir. Au revoir. Calling after Rup. Mind that corner. Closing the outer door with a bang and shouting. John. Coming back into the study. John. Closing the vestibule door. John. Going to the big doors and opening the one on the left a little way. John. Otterling, richly dressed in furs, steps through the opening and confronts him. Her cheeks are flushed and her manner has lost some of its repose. Otterling, shutting the door behind her as she enters. Playfully. Qu'est-ce que vous dész, riche John? Philip, catching her in his arms. My dear girl. I'm not going to stop a minute. I've been to tea with Kitty Millington and as I was getting into my car I suddenly thought... He kisses her. I waited in there to avoid Robby Boop. Robby came back yesterday. I hope I haven't done wrong. I've asked him to dine here tonight. Wrong. Dear old Robby. But I didn't want him just now. Loosening her up and hunting for a pocket in it. I've brought you a little gift, Phil. All souvenir de c'est soiree. Philip, reproving me. Oh. I got it at Cartier's this afternoon. I meant to slip it into your serviette tonight quietly. But it's burning a hole in my pocket. She produces a small jewel case and presents it to him. Will you wear that in your tie sometimes? Philip, opening the case and gazing at his contents. Who? She leaves him walking away to the fireplace. What a gorgeous pearl. He follows her and they stand side by side. He, holding the case at arm's length, admiringly, his other arm round her waist. You shouldn't, Adam. You're incorrigible. Otterling leaning her head against his shoulder. Phil. Philip, still gazing at the scarf pin. Tomorrow I'll buy the most beautiful silk scarf ever weaved. Phil. I've a feeling that from tonight when I sit at your table, how sweet your flowers are. I couldn't help noticing them. I've a feeling that it's from tonight that we really belong to each other. Philip, pressing her closer to him. Ah. Otterling, with a shiver, closing her eyes. What has gone before has been hateful. Hateful. Philip, looking down upon her fondly. Hateful. Until. Until your book commenced to sell at any rate. Suspense, horrid sensation of uneasiness, mistrust. The fear that, through your foolish, hasty promise to mother and dad, you might, after all, unite with them to cheat me out of my happiness. That's what it has been to me, Philip. Philip, rallying her but a little guiltily. Oh, you goose. I knew exactly how events would shape Otto. Hadn't it doubt on the subject? Shutting the jewel case with a snap and a flourish. I knew. Otterling, releasing herself. Ah, yes. I dare say I've been dreadfully stupid. Shaking herself as if to rid herself of unpleasant memories and again leaving him. Well, songs of cheer. Fastening her up. Get your hat and take me downstairs. Wait a moment. I'm not to be outdone altogether. Pocketing her gift. He goes to the cabinet on the right and unlocks it. She watches him from the middle of the room. Presently he comes to her, carrying a little ring case. Take off your glove. Pointing to her left hand. That one. She removes her glove tremulously. He takes a ring from the case, tosses the case onto the writing table and slips the ring on her third finger. By George I'm in luck. Blessed if it doesn't fit. She surveys the ring in silence for a while. Then she puts her arms round his neck and hides her face in his breast. Otterling, almost inaudibly. Oh, Phil. And so this is the end of the journey, Otto. The end. The dreary journey in opposite directions you and I set out upon nearly eleven years ago in Paris. Ah. My dear, what does it matter as long as our roads meet at last and meet where there are clear pools to bathe our vagabond feet in sunshine to heal our sore bodies? She raises her head and rummages for her handkerchief. Otto. Yes. In April, huh? Otterling, drying her eyes. April. You haven't forgotten the compact we entered into Robbie Roops. Otterling, brightening. Ah, no. In April we walk under the chestnut trees once more in the Champs-Elysée. Otterling, smiling through her tears. And the Allée de Longchamp. As husband and wife. We shall be an old married couple by then. Otterling, pulling on her glove. And drink milk at the Domaine-en-Ville. And the Prairie Catalan. And we'll make pilgrimages, Phil. Yes. We'll gaze up at the windows of my gloomy lodgings in the Rue Souffleau. What was the number? Otterling, contracting her braise. Caron-tois, bice. Philip, bantering me. Were you honoured me with a visit, madame? With your maid, Nanette. Otterling, warding off the recollection with a gesture. Oh, don't. A shame of me. Otterling, turning from him. You'll get your hat and coat. Philip, going into the vestibule. Where's your car? Otterling, moving towards the vestibule. In South Square. Philip, returning to her, a cape over his shoulders, a soft hat on his head. Eight o'clock. Eight o'clock. He takes her hands, and they stand, looking into each other's eyes. After a pause. Fancy. Fancy. He is drawing her to him slowly, when, uttering a low cry, she embraces him wildly and passionately. Oh. Klinging to him. Oh, Phil. Oh. Oh. Oh. Philip, responding to her embrace. Otto. Otto. Otterling, breaking from him. Oh. She hurries to the outer door. He follows her quickly, closing the vestibule door after him. Then the outer door is heard to shut, and the curtain falls. After a short interval, the curtain rises again, showing all the doors closed, and the study in darkness, save for the light of the fire. The bell rings, and again there is an interval. And then the vestibule door is opened by John, attired for waiting at table, and Bertram brushes past him and enters. Bertram is in evening dress. Bertram, as he enters, brusquely. Yes, I know I'm a little too soon. I want to speak to Mr. Mackwith. Before the others come, I need to see. John switches on the light of a lamp by the vestibule door. It is now seen that Bertram is greatly flustered and excited. John, taking Bertram's hat, overcoat, etc. I'll tell Mr. Mackwith, sir. He's dressing. John, eyeing Bertram, wonderingly, goes to the door of the bedroom. There, having switched on the light of another lamp, he knocks. Philip, from the bedroom. Yes. John, opening the door a few inches. Mr. Filson, sir. Hello, Bertram. Mr. Filson wants to speak to you, sir. I'll be with him in ten seconds. Leave the door open. Yes, sir. John withdraws, carrying Bertram's outdoor things into the vestibule and shutting the vestibule door. I'm in the throes of tying a bow, old man. Sit down. Bertram, glaring at the bedroom door, remains standing. No, that's fine. I warn you. I'm an overpowering swell tonight. A new suit of clothes, Bertram. Devised and executed in less than thirty-six hours. And the fits are every item of it. You'll be green with envy when you see this coat. I'm ready for you. Hankerchief? John! Oh, here it is. Switching off the light in the bedroom and appearing immaculately dressed in the doorway. Behold! Closing the door and advancing to Bertram. How are you, Bertram? Bertram refuses Philip's hand by putting his own behind his back. Philip raises his eyebrows. Huh? A pause. Anything amiss? Observing Bertram's heated look. You don't look well, Philson. Bertram breathing heavily. No, I'm not well. I mean to say, I'm sick with indignation. What about? You've attempted to play us all a rascally trick, Macworth. A low, scurvy, contemptible. Philip frowning. A trick? I've just come from Mr. Dunning. A man I've thought it my duty to employ in the interests of my family. Silito and Dunning. The private inquiry people. Private inquiry people? Dunning rang me up an hour ago, and I went down to him. The discovery wasn't clinched till this afternoon. The discovery? Oh! This precious book of yours. The Big Drum. A grand success, Macworth. I don't. The Big Drum. Wouldn't The Big Fraud be a more suitable title, I mean to say? Fraud? Reached its twenty-fifth thousand, and the demand still continues. You and Mr. What's his name? Jitterton ought to be publicly exposed, Macworth, and if we were in the least spiteful and vindictive. Philip tightening his lips. Are you sober, Philson? Now, don't you be insolent, because it won't answer. Philip winces but restrains himself. The question is, what are we to do tonight? For auto-line's sake, I mean to say. We must spare her as much shock and distress as possible. I assume you've sufficient decency left to agree with me there. My father and mother, too. They are quite ignorant of the steps I've been taking. Philip, controlling himself with difficulty. My good fellow, will you condense and to explain? Bertram, walking away. Oh, it's no use, Macworth. This air of innocence. Puffing himself out and strutting to and fro on the left. It's simply wasted effort, I mean to say, and five minutes I can have done in here over the whole disreputable story. He's placed by, bottom of Chensrey Lane. He'll be at his office till half-past eleven. Philip, between his teeth, thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets. Very accommodating of him. I tried to get on to my father from Dannings, to ask his advice, I mean to say, but he dressed early and gone to one of his clubs, and they couldn't tell me which one. Halting and looking at his watch. My suggestion is that you and I should struggle through this farce of a dinner as best as we can, as if nothing had happened, I mean to say, and that I should reserve the disclosure of your carish conduct till tomorrow. You were sent to that course, Macworth. Derving his forehead with his handkerchief. Thank heaven the announcement of the engagement hasn't appeared. Bertram. Pointing to the chair on the left of the smoking table. Bertie, old man. Seating himself easily upon the city on the right. You're your sister's brother, and I'm not going to lose my temper. My dear sir. Philip, leaning back and crossing his legs. One thing I seem to grasp clearly, and that is that while I've been endeavouring to conciliate you and make a pal of you, you've been leging yourself with a tame detective with the idea of injuring me in some way with Adeline and your father and mother. Folding his arms. That's correct, isn't it? Bertram, with a disdainful shrug. If you think it would benefit you to distort my motives, Macworth, pray do, sir. Returning to the middle of the room. What I've done, I've done, as I've already stated, from a sheer sense of duty. Philip, again pointing to the chair. Please, you'll look less formidable, old man. Bertram, sitting orderly. Knowing what depended on the fate of your book, I felt from the first that you might be unscrupulous enough to induce your publisher to represent it as being a popular success. In order to impose on us, I mean to say, though actually it was another of your failures to hit the mark. And when tititans started blowing the trumpet so loudly, my suspicions increased. Philip slowly unfolds his arms. As for desiring to injure you with my family at any price, I scorned the charge. I've had the delicacy to refrain from even mentioning my suspicions to my father and mother, let alone auto-line. Putting his neck tie-straight and smoothing his hair and his slightly crumpled shirt-front. Deeply as I regret your connection with my sister, I should have been only too happy, I mean to say, if my poor opinion of you had been falsified. Philip, his hands clenched but preserving his suavity. Extremely grateful to you, birdie, I see, and so burdened by these suspicions you carried them to Mr... Mr. Gunning? Dunning. I didn't regard it as a job for a respectable solicitor. Didn't you? Not that there is anything against Dunning. Philip, uncrossing his legs and sitting upright. Well, that brings us to the point, doesn't it? The point? The precise and illuminating. Details of the fable your friend at the bottom of Chantry Lane is fooling you with. Oh, my dear Macworth! I repeat, it's no use you're adopting this attitude. You don't realise how completely or bode over, I mean to say. Dunning's got incontestable proofs. Philip, jumping up, unable to repress himself any longer. Damn the impudence scoundrel! The bell rings. Your bell. Philip, striding to the left and then to the fireplace. You said he stalled his office, didn't you? Bertram rising. Yes. Philip, pointing to the telephone, imperatively. Get him here at once. Bertram, rather taken aback. At once. I'll deal with this gentleman promptly. Not before auto-line in my parents, I hope. Philip, seizing the poker and attacking the fire furiously. Before oddling in your parents. The most painful scene for them, I mean to say. Painful scene for you and Mr. Dunning. After dinner, when they've gone, you and I'll go down to Dunning. Philip, flinging the poker into the grate and facing Bertram. Confound you. You don't suppose I'm going to act on your suggestion and grin through a long meal with this between us? Pointing to the telephone again. Ring him up, you treacherous little welp. Quick. Advancing. If you won't. Bertram, bristling. Oh, very good. Pausing on his way to the telephone and addressing Philip with an evil expression. You were always a bully and a bluster and backward. But take my word for it. If you fancy you can bully Mr. Dunning and bluster to my family with any satisfactory results to yourself, you're vastly mistaken. I beg your pardon. Sorry I exploded. It's of no consequence. Out the telephone, his ear to the receiver. I am absolutely indifferent to your vulgar abuse, I mean to say. John announces Roup. Note, Roup and the rest of the guests divest themselves of their overcoats, wraps, etc. in the festival before entering the room. Mr. Roup. Roup, greeting Philip as John withdraws. Am I the first? Philip, glancing at Bertram. No. Bertram, speaking into the telephone. Hellbone, 3898. Roup, waving his hand to Bertram. Ah, how are you, my dear Mr. Foulson? How are you? Excuse me. My dear Phil, these excursions to Easter delightful, they are positively. The sights fill me with amazement, I— Philip, cutting him short by leading him to the fireplace. Robbie. Hey. Philip grimly dropping his voice. You hungry? Dear excellent friend, since you put the question so plainly I don't mind a vow that I am. Devilish, hungry, why? There might be a slight delay, old chap. Delay? Yes. The East hasn't exhausted its marvels yet by a long chalk. Roup, looking at him curiously. Nothing the matter, Phil. Bertram, suddenly into the telephone. That's you, Dunning. Robbie. Turning to the fire, Philip talks rapidly and energetically to Roup in undertones. Bertram, into the telephone. Foulson, Mr. Foulson. I'm speaking from Grey's Inn. Grey's Inn. Mr. Mackworth's chambers. Two Friars Court. You're wanted, Dunning. Now, immediately. Yes, jump into a taxi cab and come up, will you? Roup to Philip, aloud, opening his eyes widely. Might do, Phil. Quiet. I can't hear. Into the telephone. I can't hear. There's such a beastly noise going on. What? Dash it. You can get something to eat at any time. I mean to say. Eh? Oh, of course you may have a wash and brush up. Yes, he is. You're coming, then. Right. Goodbye. Roup to Philip, who has resumed his communication to Roup. Incredulously. Dear excellent friend. The doorbell rings again. Ah. Pausing on his way to the vestibule door to Bertram. Mr. Dunning will favour us with his distinguished company. Bertram, behind the table on the left, laringly. In a few minutes, he's washing. Washing? Some of his customers dirty linen? As he opens a vestibule door, John admits Sir Randolph Filson at the outer door. Ah, Sir Randolph. Well, Philip, my boy. While John is taking his hat, overcoat, etc. Are my dear wife and daughter here yet? Not yet. I looked in at brookses on my way to you. I hadn't been there for months. To John. My muffler in the right-hand pocket. Thank you. Entering and shaking hands with Philip. Ah. They gave me quite a warm welcome. Very gratifying. Roup advances. Mr. Roup. Shaking hands with Roup as Philip shuts the vestibule door. An unexpected pleasure. Ah. I am rather an interloper. I am afraid, my dear Sir Randolph. Sir Randolph, retaining his hand. No. No. This is one of Philip's many happy inspirations. If my memory is accurate, it was at your charming flat in South Oddly Street that he and my darling child— Discovering Bertram, who is now by the settee on the left. Bertie. Going to him. I haven't seen you all day, Bertie, dear. Kissing him on the forehead. Busy eh? Yes, father. Philip at the chair on the left of the smoking-table. Dryly. Bertram has been telling me how busy he has been, Sir Randolph. Sir Randolph, not perceiving the general error of restraint. That reminds me— Moving full of importance to the settee on the right. Feeling in his breast pocket. The announcement of the engagement, Philip. Seating himself and producing a pocket-book. Lady Philson and I do it up this morning. Hunting among some letters and papers. I believe it is in the conventional form. But we so thoroughly sympathise with you and Otterline in your dislike for anything that savers of palm and flourish, that we hesitate, without your sanction, to— Selecting a paper and hunting it to Philip. Ah! To Roup, who has returned to the fireplace, over his shoulder. I am treating you as one of ourselves, Mr. Roup. Dear excellent friend. We propose to insert it only in the three or four principal journals. Philip frowning at the paper. Sir Randolph. Eh? Haven't you given me the wrong paper? Sir Randolph, with a look of alarm, hurriedly putting on his personate and searching in his pocket-book again. The wrong? This has Universal News Agency written in the corner of it. Sir Randolph, holding out his hand for the paper. Oh. Philip, ignoring Sir Randolph's hand. Reading. The extraordinary stir which we ventured to prophecy will not soon be eclipse, made by Mr. Philip Mackworth's recent novel, The Big Drum, lends additional interest to the announcement of his forthcoming marriage to the beautiful Madame de Chomier. The bell rings. He listens to it, then goes on reading. The beautiful Madame de Chomier, daughter of the widely and deservedly popular. The widely and deservedly popular Sir Randolph and Lady Philson. After reading it to the end silently, he restores the paper to Sir Randolph with a smile and a slight bow. Sir Randolph, collecting himself. Lady Philson and I thought it might be prudent, Philip, to give a lead to the inevitable comments of the press. Replacing the paper in his pocket-book. If you object, my dear boy. Philip, with a motion of the head towards a vestibule door. That must be Lady Philson and Honoling. He goes to the door and opens it. Lady Philson and Honoling are in the vestibule and John is taking Lady Philson's wrap from her. Lady Philson, brimming over with good humour. Ah, Philip, don't say we're late. I won't. Lady Philson, entering and shaking hands with him. Your staircase is so dark it takes an age to climb it. To Roup, who comes forward, shaking hands with him. How nice. Ottoline told me, coming along, that we were to meet you. Roup, bending over her hand. Dear Lady. There you are, Randolph. Lodding to Bertram, who is sitting aloof in the chair on the extreme left. Bertie, darling. Sir Randolph rises. Aren't these rooms quaint and cosy, Randolph? Sir Randolph, still somewhat disconcerted. For a solitary man, ideal. If ever I had the misfortune to be left alone in the world. Lady Philson, sitting on the settee on the right. My dear. End of Act Three, Part One.