 Act 1 of The Big Drum by Arthur Wing Pinero. THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY Philip Macworth. Red. by Nemo. Sir Randall Philson. Knight. Red. by Todd. Bertram Philson. His son. Red. by Thomas Peter. Sir Timothy Baradel. Baronet. Red. by Alan Mapstone. Robert Roup. Red. by Adrian Stevens. Mr Collingham Green. Red. by Larry Wilson. Leonard Westrip. Sir Randall's Secretary. Red. by Shashank Jukmula. Alfred Dunning of Stilito and Dunning's Private Detective Agency. Red. by Son of the Exiles. Noise. Mr. Roup Servant. Red. by Stephen Fellows. Underwood. Servant at Sir Randall's. Red. by Kevin S. John. Mr. Macworth Servant. Red. by Devorah Allen. Ottoline Deschommiers. Comtesse Deschommiers. Naye Philson. Red. by Eva Davis. Lady Philson. Red. by Sonia. The Honourable Mrs. Godfrey Anslow. Red. by Liane Yau. Mrs. Walter Corbeck. Red. by T.J. Burns. Miss Tracer. Lady Philson's Secretary. Red. by Avaii. Stage Directions. Red. by Michael Maggs. Period. 1913. Act 1. Robert Roup's Flat in South Oldley Street. June. Act 2. Morning Room at Sir Randall Philson's. Ennismore Gardens. The Next Day. Act 3. Macworth's Chambers. Graze Inn. November. Act 4. The Same Place. The Following Morning. The curtain falls for a moment in the course of the first and third acts. The Big Drum. The First Act. The scene is a room elegantly decorated in a flat in South Oldley Street. On the right, two windows give a view through muzzling curtains of the opposite houses. In the wall facing the spectator are two doors, one on the right, the other on the left. The left-hand door opens into the room from a dimly lighted corridor, the door on the right from the dining room. Between the doors there is a handsome fireplace. No fire is burning and the grate is banked with flowers. When the dining room door is opened, a sideboard and a side table are seen in the further room. Upon which are dishes of fruit, an array of ice-plates and finger-balls, liqueurs into cantors, glasses, silver, etc. The pictures, the ornaments upon the mantelpiece, and the articles of furniture are few but choice. A high-backed settee stands on the right of the fireplace. Near the settee is a foot-eye stool. Facing the settee is a Charles II arm-chair. On the left of the room there is a small table with a chair beside it. On the right, not very far from the nearer window, are a writing-table and writing-chair. Pieces of bric-a-brac lie upon the tables, where there are also some graceful statuettes in ivory and bronze. Another high-backed settee fills the space between the windows, and in each window there is an arm-chair of the same period as the one at the fireplace. The street is full of sunlight. Note throughout, right and left are the spectators right and left, not the actors. Robert Roop, seated at the writing-table, is sealing a letter. Noise enters at the door on the left, followed by Philip McWeth. Noise announcing Philip. Mr. Markworth. Roop, a simple-looking gentleman of fifty, scrupulously attired, jumping up and shaking hands warmly with Philip as the servant withdraws. My dear Phil. Philip, a negligently almost shabbily dressed man in his late thirties, with a handsome but worn face. My dear Robbie. A triumph to have dragged you out. Looking at his watch. Luncheon isn't till a quarter to two. I asked you for half-past one, because I want to have a quiet little jaw with you beforehand. Delightful. Uh, I better tell you at once, old chap, whom you'll meet here today. Aha! Your tone presages a most distinguished guest. Seating himself in the chair by the small table. Is she a grand duchess, or is he a crowned head? Roop, smiling rather uneasily. Wait, I work up to my great effect by degrees. We shall be only six. Collingham Green. Oh, Lord. Now, Phil, don't be naughty. The fellow who does the society gossip for the planet. And does it remarkably neatly, in my opinion. Oh! Leaning back in his chair, his legs outstretched and spouting. Mrs. Trevelain Potter, wearing a gown of yellow charmous, exquisitely draped with chiffon, gave a dance for her niece, Miss Hermione Stubbs, at the Ritz Hotel last night. That sort of stuff. Roop, pained. Somebody has to supply it. Pretty, Mrs. Claude Grimes came on from the opera in her pearls, and Lady Beakley looked younger than her daughter in blue. Roop, roofily. You don't grow a bit more reasonable, Phil. Not a bit. I beg pardon. Go ahead. Roop, sitting on the foot-eye stool. Mrs. Godfrey Anslow and Mrs. Wally Quebec abused them. Bless their innocent hearts. They'll be glad to meet Mr. Green. I trust so. Couple of pushing, advertising women. Really? Ha-ha-ha. Sorry. That's five, with you and me. That's five, as you justly observed. Clearing his throat. Cough, cough, cough. The sixth. I prepare myself for your great effect. Roop, with an effort. Um... Madame de Chomier is in London, Phil. Philip, sitting upright. Madame de Chomier. Disturbed. Is she coming? Y-yes. Philip, rising. Can't found you, Robbie. She's got rid of her house in Paris and rejoined her people. She's with them in nine small gardens. Thank you, I'm aware of it. One reads of Auteleine's movements and every rag one picks up. She's the biggest chesses of the crab. I assure you, she appears very much altered. What? Can the leopard change his spots? Her family may still bang the big drum occasionally and give it an extra whack on her account, but Auteleine herself... Faw. Why the devil have you done this? I confess, in the hope of bringing about a reconciliation. You? You good-natured old meddler. Does she expect to find me here? No. Philip, making for the door on the left. I'll bolt then. Roup, rising and seizing him. You shall do nothing of the kind. Forcing him down on the foot of his stool. You're upset. My luncheon table. Tidying himself. You're most inconsiderate. You are positively and you've disarranged my necktie. How's she looking, Robbie? Brilliant. Putting his necktie in order. Is that straight? Brilliant. Philip, gazing into space. Ten years ago, old man. Quite. Who's at her father and mother's in Paris? That I made your acquaintance, recollect? Perfectly, in the Avenue Montaigne. I had a flat in the Palais Royale at the time. You were one of the smartsets. It was worth their while to get ahold of you. My dear Phil, to be moderately fair, you weren't in the smartset. No. I was trying my hand at journalism in those days. Treadful trade. I was Paris correspondent to the Whitehall Gazette. That's why I was favored. Robbie. Hey. You'll scarcely credit it. One evening, while I was at work, Adeline turned up with her maid at my lodgings in the Rue Souffleux, sent the maid out of the room and proposed that I should mention her family in my letters to the Whitehall. Mention them? Drag in allusions to him constantly. Their entertainments and so forth. Boom them, in fact. Was that the cause of the... the final...? Philip, nodding. Yes. The following week, her engagement to Deschomiers was announced. Well, in spite of all this, I'm convinced she was genuinely attached to you, Phil, as fond of you as you were of her. Philip, resting his head on his hands. Oh, shut up. Anyhow, here's an opportunity of testing it, dear excellent friend. She's been a widow twelve months. You need to have no delicacy on that score. Philip, looking up. Why, do you suggest...? Certainly, and without delay. I hear there's a shoal of men after her, including Tim Baradale. Philip, with a grim smile. Bacon Baradale. They say Sir Timothy is in constant attendance. And what chance, do you imagine, would a poor literary cove stand against a real live baronet and the largest baking curer in Ireland? Roup, rubbing his chin. You never know, women are romantic creatures. She might prefer the author of those absorbing works of fiction as pages often wrap up Tim Baradale's rashes. Philip, rising. Giving himself a shake. Even so, it can't be done, Robbie. Though I'm grateful to you for your amiable little plot. Walking about. Heaven's above. If Adeline married me, she'd be puffing my wares on the sly before the honeymoon was half over. And a jolly good job too. Moving to the left, peevishly. The truth is, my dear Phil, you're a crank, an absolute crank on the subject of the... ah, the natural desire of some people to keep themselves in the public eye. Mercy on us. If it comes to that, I'm an advertiser. If it comes to that, you miserable old sinner, you are! I admit it, frankly. I own it gratifies me exceedingly to see my little dinner parties and tea parties here or at my club chronicled in the press. It gratifies my friends also. Many of them wouldn't honour me at all if my list of guests weren't in the fashionable intelligence next morning. Yes, you may roar. I declare I shudder to think of the difference it would make to me socially if I didn't advertise. Robbie, I blush for you. Tosh, it's an advertising age. Philip, stalking to the fireplace. It's a deacely vulgar age. It's the age I happen to live in and I accommodate myself to it. Pacing the room as he warms to his theme. And if it's necessary for private individuals such as myself to advertise, as I maintain it is, how much more necessary it is for you to do so. A novelist, a poet, would be playwright, a man with something to sell. Dash it! I've got to advertise soap and soap's essential. Why not literature, which isn't? And yet, you won't find the name of Mr. Philip Macworth in the papers from one year's end to another. Except in a scrubby criticism, now and again. Excuse me. There are the publisher's announcements. Publishers' announcements? Not speaking of the regular advertising columns. What I want to see are paragraphs concerning you mixed up with the news of the day. Information about you and your habits, interviews with you, letters from you, on every conceivable topic. Philip, grinning. Do you? Roup, joining Philip. Oh, my dear Phil, I entreat you. Feed the papers. It isn't as if you hadn't talent you have. Advertising minus talent goes a long way. Advertising plus talent is irresistible. Feed the papers. The more you do for them, the more they'll do for you. Quid pro quo. To the advertiser shall advertisement be given. Newspaper men are the nicest chaps in the world. Feed them gratis with bright and amiss and copy, as you term it, and they'll love and protect you forever. Not forever, Robbie. Whom the press loves die young. It's fickle, you mean. Someday it'll turn and rend you, perhaps. Still, if you make hay while the sun shines. The sun? You don't call that the sun. Psh. Roup, leaving him. Oh, I have enough patience with you. My word, your hatred of publicity is... is... is morbid. It's worse than morbid. It's, um, Victorian. Standing in the chair by the small table. There. I can't say anything severer. Philip, advancing. Yes, but wait a moment, Robbie. Who says I have a hatred of publicity? I haven't said anything so absurd. Don't I write for the public? Exactly. Philip, standing near Roup. I have no dislike for publicity. For fame. By George, sir, I covet it. If I can win it honestly and decently. Roup shrugging his shoulders. Ah. And I humble myself before the men and women of my craft. And there are many who succeed in winning it in that fashion. Or who are content to remain obscure. But for the rest, the hustlers of the pen, the seekers after mere blatant applause, the pickers-up of cheap popularity, I have a profound contempt for them and their methods. You can't deny the ability of some of them. Deny it. Of course I don't deny it. But no amount of ability of genius, if you will, absolves the follower of any art from the obligation of conducting himself as a modest gentleman. Ah. Well, there's where you're so hopelessly Victorian and out of date. Well, that's my creed. And whether I've talent or not, I'd rather snuff out. When my time comes, neglected and a pauper, then go back on it. Walking away and pacing the room. Oh. But I'm not discouraged, my dear Robbie. Not a scrap. I'm not discouraged, though you do regard me as a dismal failure. No. No. And I shall collar the great public yet. You mark me. I shall collar them yet, and without stooping to the tricks and devices you advocate. Returning to Roop. Robbie. Roop. Rising. Robbie. Philip, laying his hands on Roop's shoulders. If my next book, my autumn book, isn't a mighty go, I'll eat my hat. Dear excellent friend, perhaps you'll be obliged to for nourishment. Taking Roop's arm. Oddly enough, oddly enough, the story deals with a very subject we've been discussing. Indeed. Yes. You hid on the tile a few minutes ago. Really? When you were talking of oddling and her people. The big drum. C-c-capital. Titterton, my new publisher, is tremendously taken with the scheme of the thing. Keen has mustered about it. Um, pardon me, Phil. Eh? Roop. Fingering the lapel of Philip's coat. I say, old man, you wouldn't be guilty of the deplorably bad taste of putting me into it, would you? Philip, slapping him on the back. My dear Robbie, half the plate world is in it. Don't tell me you wish to be left out when cold. Dear excellent friend. Noise enters again at the door on the left, proceeding Collingham Green. Noise announcing Green and then retiring. Mr. Collingham Green. Green. A gaily dressed, genial soul, with a flower in his buttonhole, a monocle, a waxed mustache, and a skillful arrangement of a sparse head of hair, shaking hands with Roop. How are you, my dear fellow? My dear Collie. Delighted to see you. Ah, an awful scumble did he get here. I was afraid I shouldn't be able to manage it. You'd have broken our hearts if you hadn't. You know my quest. And his charming works. Shaking hands with Philip. Haven't met you for ever so long. How'd you do? Ah, I must sit down. Sitting on the four-toy stool and taking off a pair of delicately tinted gloves. The season is killing me. I'm sure I shat less till Goodwood Robbie. Yes, it's a shocking rush, isn't it? Ha-ha-ha! You only fancy your rushed. Your life is a rest cure compared with mine. You've no conception, either of you, what my days are just now. Philip, finding himself addressed. Exhausting, no doubt. Take today, for example. I was in my bath at Half-Post-Seven. Half-Post-Seven? Though I wasn't in bed till two this morning. At eight I had a cup of coffee and a piece of dry toast and skimmed the papers. From eight-thirty till ten I dictated a special article on our modern English hostesses. The hostesses of England is hospitality declining. A question I answer in the negative. Quite right. At ten o'clock a man from Clapham Beasley's was some patterns of socks and underwear. Disposed of him, dressed, and by a quarter to eleven I was in the park. Strolled up and down with Lady Vintdor and Sir Hill Birch, and saw everybody there was to be seen. I never make a single note. My memory's marvellous. Left the park at twelve and took a taxi to inquire after Lord Harrogate. Charlie Sivarite and old Lady Dorcas knew him. Ah, am I boring you? Boring us? The Lady Dorcas caught sight of me from her window and held me in. I sat with her for twenty minutes. Greeny, she always calls me. Mimicking. Now, Greeny, what's the news? Ha-ha-ha! I walked away from Lady Dorcas's and was in Upper Grozner Street punctually at one. To Rube. There's been a meeting at Baroness Vundamere's today, you know, over this vet at the Albert Hall. Ah, yes, I'm to be in Lady Freddy Hoyle's Plantagenant Group. I'm a knight in attendance on King John. I had a short private chat with the Baroness and followed her into the drawing-room. They were still at it when I sneaked out a side door, and here I am. Extraordinary! Hey, Phil. Philip, leaning against the chair by the writing-table. Most interesting. Green, to Philip, rising. I lunch with Rube. To Rube. You'll have to let me off at three, Robbie, and then my grind begins again. Rube, throwing up his hands in admiration. How? Whore's show. Two musical parties. Lady Goldemings and Mrs. Reggie Mosenstein's. Then home and more dictation to my secretary. Dined with Sir Patrick and Lady Logan at the Carleton, and then to the opera with my spy-glass. From Covent Garden I dashed down to Fleet Street, write my late stuff, and my day's done. Ah, unless I have strength left for Lady Ronald Shaw's dance and a crush at Mrs. Hume Cutler's. Rube, repeating his former action. Oh! Oh! Noise reappears. Mrs. Walter Quebec. Mrs. Walter Quebec enters, and noise withdraws. Rube, taking Mrs. Quebec's hand. My dear Mrs. Wally, how are you? Mrs. Quebec, a bright, energetic, fairly young lady. How are you, Robbie? Walter is so grieved. He's lunching at the order with Tony Baxter. He did try to wriggle out of it. Discovering Green and going to him with a hand extended. Oh! I am glad. You're just the man I'm dying to see. Green, kissing a hand. Ah! Lady Skews and I are getting up a concert in aid of the poor sufferers from the earthquake in... What's the name of the place? I forget. Lady Skews knows it, and we want you to say a lot about us in your darling paper. Only distinguished amateurs. That's where the novelty comes in. Lady Skews is going to play the violin. If she can pull herself together, she hasn't played for centuries. Seeing Philip advancing and shaking hands with him casually. How do you do? To Green. And I've promised to sing. Splendid! But how captivating! Mrs. Quebec, to Green. I've sunk so seldom since my marriage, and they've had such a difficulty to lure me out of my tiny wee shell. Would you mind willing on that a little? Of course not. Anything I can do, dear lady. That's too utterly sweet of you. You shall have full particulars tomorrow. I wouldn't bother you, but it's charity, isn't it? Oh, and there's something else I want you to be kind over. Noise returns. Mrs. Godfrey Anselo. The honourable Mrs. Godfrey Anselo enters, and noise goes out again. Mrs. Anselo, a tall, languishing woman with a toneless drool. To Roup. Am I late? Roup, pressing her hand. Not a second, my very dear friend. Can't help it if I am. My car got smashed up last week in Roehampton Lane, and the motor people have lent me the original arc on wheels. Mrs. Quebec comes to her. Hello, Esme. Mrs. Quebec, shaking hands. How are you, Millicent? Mrs. Anselo, going to Green, and giving him her hand. Oh, and here's that horrid Mr. Green. My dear Mrs. Anselo. Horrid? What's he done? Sitting in the chair by the small table. I consider him a white-robed angel. I sent him a long account of my accident at Roehampton, and he hasn't condescended to take the slightest notice of it. Oh, Mr. Green. Mrs. Anselo, to Green. It's cruel of you. Mr. Green, to Mrs. Anselo, twiddling his moustache. Alac and alas, dear lady. More collisions, though, not quite in my line. You might have passed it on to the accident, man. Or you could have said the time to be seen riding in the Roe. Evidently, none the worse for my recent shock. That's in your line. I might have done that, certainly. Tapping his brow. Fact is, height of the season. Perfectly distracted. Mrs. Anselo, with the air of a martyr. It doesn't matter. I shan't trouble you again. I've never been a favourite of yours. Ah, don't. It's true. I was one of the few store-holders of the army and navy bazaar whose gowns you didn't describe. Seeing Philip anodding to him haisily. How do you do? Roup, prompting her. Quest? Mrs. Anselo goes to Philip and proffers him a limp hand. Green retreats to the far place and Mrs. Quebec rises and pursues him. Mrs. Anselo to Philip. I think we met once at my cousins, the Fairfields. Philip bowing. Yes. You're right, don't you? Philip evasively. No. Roup joining them. Dear Mrs. Anselo, Mr. McWeth is one of the most gifted authors of the present day. Philip glaring at Roup. Tish! Roup to Mrs. Anselo. Get his books from your library instantly. I envy you, the treat in store for you. Noise again appears. Madame de Chourmier. Ottoline de Chourmier enters, a beautiful, pale, elegant young woman of three and thirty, with a slightly foreigner and perfect refinement of manner. Noise retires. Everybody is manifestly pleased to see Ottoline, except Philip, who picks up a little figure from the writing table and examines it critically. Roup hurrying to her and taking her hand. Ah! Robbie, dear. Mrs. Quebec going to Ottoline. Oh! They embrace. This is lovely. Ottoline to Mrs. Anselo, who comes to her. Millicent. To Green, who bustles forward and kisses her hand. How do you do? Mrs. Quebec to Ottoline. You didn't stay long at the railtins last night, Ottoline? I had a headache. Mother was so vexed with me. Headache or not, you looked divine. A vision. Green to Ottoline. Ha! I hope you saw the remarks about you in this morning's paper, dear lady. For shame, Mr. Green. Have you been flattering me again? Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Roup standing there, Philip. Madame de Chourmier. Ottoline advancing. Yes? He's an old friend of ours whom you haven't met for years, MacWes. She starts and then waits, rooted for Philip's approach. He replaces the figure carefully and comes to her and the hands touch. Roup leaves them and engages the others in conversation. Ottoline to Philip in a low voice, her eyes sparkling. I had no idea I was to have this pleasure. Philip, gently but without exceeding the bands of mere courtesy. Robbie excels in surprises. He has been almost equally reserved with me. Are you very well? Very. And you? Very. And Sir Randall and Lady Philson? Quite well, and my brother Bertram. Chilled. Perhaps you've heard that I am making my home with them now in London permanently, that I've left Paris. Robbie and the newspapers have told me. It's late in the day to do it. May I offer you my sympathy? Ottoline with a stately inclination of the head. Thank you. And I, my congratulations on your success. Success? Ah, le public est si bête. I've read every line you've written, I believe. He buys. I feel proud to think that we were once, that we were once, not des inconnus. He buys again, and there is silence between them. The dining room door opens and noise presents himself. A waiter is seen in the dining room, standing at the side table. Noise to Roup. Lunch is served, sir. Roup to everybody. Come along, come along, dear excellent friends. Ottoline smiles graciously at Philip and turns from him. Lead the way, dear Mrs. Anslow. Made him to show me a. Mrs. Anslow slips her arm through Ottoline. You both sit opposite the fireplace. Dear Mrs. Wally, come along, my dear Phil. Putting an arm round Green's shoulder. Collie? They all move into the dining room, and the curtain falls. It rises again almost immediately. A chair, withdrawn from the further window, is now beside the photoise stool on its right. And the chair which was close to the small table has been pulled out into the room and faces the photoise stool at some little distance from it. The doors are closed. Mrs. Anslow and Mrs. Quebec are taking their departure. The former is saying goodbye to Ottoline, standing before the fireplace. The latter is talking to Roup near the door on the left. On the right is Philip, ready to receive his share of the adieu. Mrs. Anslow shaking hands with Ottoline. Goodbye. You might come on to Olympia. My sister-in-law's box holds six. Sorry, I really am full up this afternoon. Mrs. Quebec comes to Ottoline as Mrs. Anslow goes to Philip. Roup opens the door on the left and remains there, waiting to escort the ladies to the outer door. Can I give you a lift anywhere, Esme? Thanks. Millicent's taking me along with her to the horse show. Mrs. Anslow shaking hands with Philip. Very pleased to meet you again. Ever see anything now of the Fairfields? Never. No loss. I believe dear old Eustis is off his head. Possibly. Mrs. Anslow, tolerantly. But then, so many people are off their heads, aren't they? A great many. Mrs. Anslow bestowing a parting nod upon Philip and crossing to the open door. Shant wait, Esme. It's a month's journey to Hammersmith and the Ark. Mrs. Quebec kissing Ottoline. Goodbye. Mrs. Anslow to Roup. Charming watch. Enjoyed myself enormously. Mrs. Quebec shaking hands with Philip hastily. Goodbye, Mr. Mackworth. Goodbye. Roup and Mrs. Anslow have disappeared. Mrs. Quebec follows them. Ottoline approaches Philip slowly. Ottoline giving him her hand. Goodbye. Philip bending over it formally. Goodbye. We're in any small gardens, you know. He acknowledges the information by a stiff bow. She interests herself in her glove buttons. You've chosen to drop out of my... out of our lives so completely that I hardly like to ask you to come and see us. Philip constrainedly. You're very good, but I... I don't go about much in these days, and I'm afraid. Oh, I'm sure you're wise. Drawing herself erect. A writer shouldn't give up to society what is meant for mankind, should he? She passes him distantly to leave the room, and he suddenly grips her shoulder. Ottoline. By a mutual impulse they glance swiftly at the open door and she throws herself into his arms. Philip. Just as swiftly they separate, and a moment afterwards Roup returns, rubbing his hands cheerily. Roup advancing, but not shutting the door. There! Now we're by ourselves. To Ottoline. You're not running away. Ottoline confused. Oh, I... I... It's only half past three. Why don't you and Mackwear sit down and have a little talk together? To Philip, who has strolled to the further window and is looking into the street. You're in no hurry, Phil. Not in the least. Roup crossing to the writing table. I'll finish answering my letters. I shan't have a moment later on. Gathering up his correspondence. You won't disturb me. I'll polish him off in another room. To Ottoline. Are you going to Lady Portons by and by? By any chance? Ottoline, again at the fireplace, are back to Roup and Philip. And Mrs Jack Hearthcoats and Mrs LaRoy's? You shall take me to Lown Square, if you will. You shan't be more than ten minutes. At the door. Ten minutes, dear excellent friends, a quarter of an hour at the outside. He vanishes, closing the door. There is a pause, and then Philip and Ottoline turn to one another and he goes to her. Ottoline, her hands in his, breathlessly. You are glad to see me, then. Oh, you are glad. Yes. You brute, Phil, to make me behave in such an undignified way. If there's any question of dignity, what on earth has become of mine? I was the first to break down. To break down? Why should you try to treat me so freezingly? You can't be angry with me still after all these years. C'est pas possible. It was stupid of me to attempt to hide my feelings. Pressing a hand to his lips. But, my dear Otto, my dear girl, where is the use of our coming into each other's lives again? The use? Why shouldn't we be again as we were in the old Paris days? Embarrassed. Well, not quite, perhaps. Philip smiling. Of course. If you command it. I'm ready to buy some smart clothes and fish for opportunities of meeting you occasionally on a crowded staircase or in a hot supper-room. But, as for anything else? Ottoline slowly withdrawing her hands and putting them behind her. As for anything else? I repeat, qui bono? Regarding her kindly but penetratingly. What would be the result of your reviving a friendship with an ill-tempered, intolerant person who would be just as capable tomorrow of turning upon you like a savage? Ah, you are still angry with me. As you did that evening, for instance, when I came with Nanette to your shabby little den in the roose who flow. Precisely. Ottoline walking away to the front of the photoe-stool. To beg you to pron name my father and mother in the journal you were writing for. What was the name of it? Philip following her. The White Hog Zet. You were polite enough to tell me that my cravings and ideals were low, pitiful, in noble. You remember? Ottoline facing him. It's clearly as you do, my friend. Laying her hand upon his arm, melting. Besides, they were true. Those words hideously true, as were many other sharp ones you shot at me in Paris. Turning from him. Low, pitiful, in noble. Otto. She seats herself in the chair by the photoe-stool and motions him to sit by her. He does so. Yes, they were true. But they are true of me no longer. I'm greatly changed, Philip. Philip, eyeing her. You are more beautiful than ever. Ush, changed in my character. Disposition, view of things. Life has gone sadly with me since we parted. Indeed. I'm grieved. My marriage was an utter failure. You heard. Philip, shaking his head. No. No. Smiling faintly. I thought everybody hears when a marriage is a failure. The fact remains it was a terrible mistake. Poor Lucian. I don't blame him for my nine years of unhappiness. I engaged myself to him in a hurry. Out of peak. Peak? Within a few hours of that fatal visit of mine to your lodgings, looking at him significantly, it was that that drove me to it. Philip, staring at her. That? Yes, Phil. Otto. Otterling, plucking at the arm of her chair. You see, you see, now I was standing with the vulgarity of my mind. I had a deep respect for you. Even then there were wholesome signs in me. Shrugging her shoulders plaintively. Whether I should have ended by obeying my better instincts and accepting you, I can't say. I believe I should. I... I believe I should. At any rate, I had already begun to chafe under the consciousness that while you loved me, you had no esteem for me. My dear... Otterling raising her head. That scene between us, in the hoose who flows up my blood on fire. To have a request refused me was sufficiently mortifying, but to be whipped, scorched, scarified in the bargain. I flew down your stairs after I left you and drove home scorching with indignation. And next morning I sent for Lucien, blind adore, and promised to be his wife. Leaning back. Comprélez-vous, Metinon, solely to hurt you, to hurt you, to hurt you, the one man among my acquaintances whom I admired. She searches for her handkerchief. He rises and goes to the mantelpiece and stares at the flowers in the grate. Otterling wiping a tear from her cheek. Dear me, whenever I go over the past and that's not seldom, I can't help thinking you might have been a little gentler with me. A girl of three and twenty. And have made allowances. Blowing her nose. What was Dad before he went to Buenos Aires with his wife and children? Only a junior partner and a small concern in the city. Wasn't it natural that when he came back to Europe, prosperous but a nobody, he should be eager to elbow himself into a respectable social position and that his belonging should have caught the fever? Yes. Yes. Otterling rising and wandering to the writing-table. First we descended upon Paris, you know, but Paris didn't respond very satisfactorily. Plenty of smart men flocked round us. La belle mademoiselle Filsson drew them to the avenue Montaigne. Philip under his breath turning. But the women were either hopelessly bourgeois or slightly declassé. Inspecting some of the pieces of bric-a-brac upon the table. Which decided us to attack London and induced me to pay my call upon you in the roost of flow. I understand. To coax you, to herald us in your weekly culsory. Wintzing. Horrible of me, that was horrible, horrible, horrible. Replacing an object upon the table and moving to the other side of the room. However, I wasn't destined to share the earliest of the London triumphs. Mine awaited me in Paris and at Vaudemont-Badrecourt as the com-teste de Charmier. Shivering. She is about to sit in the chair on the left when he comes to her impulsively and restrains her. My poor girl. Otterling with abandon. My poor, dear girl. It's a relief to me to open my heart to you, Philip. He leads her to the photoise-stool. Robbie won't interrupt us yet a while, will he? We'll kick him out if he does. They sit close together upon the photoise-stool. But he won't. This is a deep-laid plot of the old chaps. Plot? To invite us here today, you and me, to... To... Aminez-en rapprochement. Exactly. Ha! Dear old Robbie. He laughs with her. Dear, dear old Robbie. Her laughter dies out, leaving her with a serious, appealing face. Phil. Eh? You're sneer. You're sneer about me in the papers. Sneer? I detected it. Almost the first thing you said to me when I arrived is that you've been gathering news of me lately from the papers. Forgive me. It's been none of my doing. I've finished with the Lys-Nor-Bism entirely. Pleadingly. You don't doubt me. Philip patting her hand. No. No. Nowadays I detest coming across my name and print, but my people... With a little mooey. They will persist in... Beating the big drum? Ha! Brushing her hair from her brow fretfully. Oh, Phil. It was blindness on my part to return to them, sheer blindness. Blindness? They've been urging me to do it ever since my husband's death. So I had ample time to consider the step, but I didn't realise till I'd settled down in Ennismore Gardens how thoroughly I... Philip finding she doesn't continue. How thoroughly? How thoroughly. I've grown away from them. Seized to be one of them. Stumping her foot. Oh, I know I'm ungrateful in that they're proud of me and pet and spoil me. Contracting her shoulder blades. But they make my flesh feel quite raw. Mother, Dad and my brother, Bartram, their intense satisfaction with themselves and everything appertaining to them irritates me to such a pitch that I'm often obliged to rush out of the room to stop myself from being rude. Impetuously. And then to have to watch Dad and Mother still pushing, scheming, intriguing, always with the affectation of despising, or reclam, yet doing nothing. Not the most simple act without a careful eye to it. Years ago, as I said, there was an intelligible motive for our paltry ambitions. But now, when they have forse le porte and can afford to be sincere and independent... Checking herself. But I oughtn't to speak on my folks like this, ought I? Even to you whom I can trust. It's awfully wrong of me. I beg your pardon. Philip, after a short silence. What do you intend to do then, ought I? Ultimately, re-establish yourself in Paris? Autoline, drearily. Paris. It's Paris so full of tearful memories for me, do you suppose, that I should cling to it? Oh, come. I traveled about for some months after I became a widow, and when I saw Paris again... Starting up, as if to rid herself of disagreeable sensations. Now, my one great desire is to escape from it all, Phil. Moving the chair on the left. To escape. Philip, rising. Escape. To alter the whole current of my life, if it's possible. Sinking into the chair. And to breathe some fresh air. Fanning herself with a hand. Phew. Hmm. Approaching her and looking down upon her. According to report, Autoline, you'd have very little difficulty in... escaping. Autoline glancing up at him. Report. Rumour has it, there are at least a dozen ardent admirers at your feet, each with a wedding ring in his waistcoat pocket. Autoline reproachfully, her eyes meeting his. Why, have you been listening to Tittle-Tattle as well as studying newspaper paragraphs? He buys good humbly. My dear Philip, allowing for exaggeration, granting that my super-all number half a dozen, which of them would enable me to fill my lungs with fresh air? Who are they, these enterprising men? Philip, leaving her abruptly and going to the mantelpiece. No, pray don't ask me. I don't know who the fellows are, except they say Sir Timothy Baradale. Sir Timothy. Sir Timothy has only just succeeded in fighting his way into the world I'm sick and tired of. Shaking her head. Poor Sir Tim. Ha ha ha. Philip is back towards her. Yes. What sort of world would you be willing to exchange for your present one, my dear? What sort? What sort? Spiritual and material? Autoline resting her elbow upon the arm of the chair and a chin upon her hand, musingly. Uh, I believe any world would content me. That's totally different from the world I've lived in so long. Any world that isn't flat and stale and stifling that isn't made up of shams and petty aims and appetites. Any world that, well, such a world as you used to picture Phil when you preached your gospel to a selfish, common girl under the chestnuts and I laid a long shamp in the shams early today. Half laughing, half sighing. Ha ha ha. La la la. Again there is a pause, and he walks to the further window and gazes into the street once more. Ten years ago, Hara. Ten years ago. Philip, partly ingest, partly seriously. Do the buds still sprout on those trees in the alay de long shamp and the shams alay zay? Can you tell me? Autoline, falling in with his humour. Ha ha ha. Every spring shall I meet regularly. And the milk at the cafe de Omonoville and the prey Catalan, is it still rich and delectable? To the young I assume scarcely to the aged widow. Or the grey-haired scribbler. Ha ha ha ha. He turns and advances to her slowly, looking at her fixedly and earnestly. Autoline. I wonder whether you'd care to walk under those truths of me again for a sentiment's sake. Some fine day in the future. Autoline, staring at him. Care? And if you would, whether I ought to tempt you to risk it. Autoline, rising, smiling, but discomposed. To risk finding that Le lait n'est pas crémure, do you mean? To risk even that. Drawing nearer to her. Otto. I should be delighted if, if ever. No, no. Not as friends, Otto. Save in the best sense. I, I don't. As husband and wife. She stands quite still. Husband and wife. Some day when I've achieved a solid success, when I've captured the great public, and can come to you. Not as a poor struggling writer, but holding my prizes in both hands. Autoline, putting her hand to her forehead. It's, it's not too late, is it? Philip recoiling. Too late? For me, to be successful. Autoline, passionately. Oh my God, don't say that to me. Going to him and clinging to him. Too late for me to recover a little of what I've lost. Philip, pressing her to him. Too late for neither of us. It's a bargain. Yes, yes, but... But... Autoline, her head drooping. Must it be some day? Pitiously. Some day. There are signs in the sky. The day isn't far distant. I have money, Philip. Shhh. Frightening. Oddly. Ah, je vois que vautre au gai, et plus fort que vautre amour. Ha, ha, ha. Peut-être. Je n'aimant de femme pas. You consent? Autoline, piting. I may let my people know of the arrangement, may or not. You'll see them? My dear, what would be gained by that now? It would enable you to come off into Ennismore Gardens and have cozy teas with me in my room. We couldn't be what we are on the side, and definitely it's impracticable. There'll be a storm at first, but it will soon blow over. Making a rye face. Still, if you'd rather. No, no, I'll see them, if you wish me to. Nodding. We'll be open and above board from the start. Ah, ha, ha, ha. Ah. Philip, his tone changing to one of misgiving. Ah, Otto. I begin to be afraid that I oughtn't. That I oughtn't to have spoken to you. Why? Philip, gravely. You'll never be patient. You'll never be content to wait, if need be. Content? No, but patient. Shall I tell you a secret? Well? I've been waiting, waiting for you, in my dreams, for ten years. Otto. Isn't that patience? Their lips meet in a lingering kiss. The handle of the door on the left is heard to rattle. Looking at the door, they draw back from one another. The handle rattles again. It's that idiot Robbie. Ha, ha, ha, ha. The door opens and Roop appears, with an air of unconcern. Tra-la-la-la. That's done, dear excellent friends. Closing the door and coming forward. Upon my word, let us know the curse of one's existence. Ha, ha, ha, ha. Seizing him. Robbie. Hey? I can't take you to Lady Poulton's, or anywhere else. Philip and I are going to spend the rest of the afternoon here, if you'll let us, and talk, and talk. Suddenly embracing him, and kissing him upon the cheek. Ah, que vous êtes gentille. Merci, merci, merci. Sitting in the chair on the left and unpinning her hat. Ha, ha, ha, ha. Roop turning to Philip, his eyes bolting. Phil? Philip nodding. Yes. Ringing Roop's hand. Much obliged, Robbie. End of the first act. Act two, part one 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 second act. The scene is a morning-room, richly furnished and decorated in a house in Ennismore Gardens. The walls are of paneled wood for two-thirds of their height, the rest being covered with silk. In the wall at the back, between the centre and the left-hand corner, there is a handsome double-door opening upon another door covered in thick cloth, which is supposed to give admittance to the library. On the right, in a piece of wall running obliquely towards the spectator from the back wall to the right-hand wall, is a companion double-door to that on the left, with the difference that the panels of the upper part of this door are glazed. A silk curtain obscures the glazed panels to the height of about seven feet from the floor, and above the curtain there is a view of the spacious hall. When the glazed door is opened, it is seen that the hall is appropriately furnished. A window is at the further end of it, letting in light from the street, and on the right of the window there is a lofty screen arranged in such a manner as to suggest that it conceals the front door of the house. The fireplace, where a bank of flowers hides the grate, is in the left-hand wall of the room. On the further side of the fireplace there is an armchair, and before the fireplace a settee. Behind the settee, also facing the fireplace, are a writing table and chair. Close to the further side of the writing table is a smaller chair, and at the nearer end of the settee, but some distance from it, stands a low-backed armchair, which is turned in the direction of the door on the right. On the other side of the room, facing the spectator and following the line of the oblique wall, is a second settee. On the left of this settee is an armchair, on the right a round table and another chair. Books and periodicals are strewn upon the table. Against the wall at the back, between the doors, are an oblong table and a chair, and other articles of furniture and embellishment, cabinets of various kinds, jardiniere, mirrors, lamps, et cetera, et cetera, occupy spaces not provided for in this description. Among other objects on the oblong table are some framed photographs, conspicuously displayed, of members of the royal family, and a book rack containing books of reference. It is daylight. Miss Tracer, a red-haired, sprightly young lady, is seated upon the settee on the right, turning the leaves of a picture paper. A notebook with a pencil stuck in it lies by her side. There is a knock at the door on the left. Miss Tracer calling out. The door opens and Leonard Westrip appears. He carries a pile of press cuttings. Westrip, a fresh-coloured, boyish young man. I beg your pardon. Seeing that Miss Tracer is alone. Oh, good morning. Good morning. Westrip entering and closing the door. Lady Filson isn't down yet? No. Tossing the picture paper onto the round table. She didn't go to bed till pretty late last night, I suspect? Westrip advancing. I thought she'd like to look through these. Showing Miss Tracer the press cuttings. From the press cutting agency. Miss Tracer picking up her notebook and rising. You bet she would. Westrip handing her the press cuttings. Let me have them back again, please. Sir Randall hardly had time to glance at them before he went out. Miss Tracer inquisitively elevating her eyebrows. He's out very early? Yes. He's gone to a memorial service. Another? With a twinkle. That's the third this month. So it is. I'm awfully sorry for him. What is there to laugh at, Miss Tracer? You don't believe he has ever really known half the people he mourns, do you? Not known them? Miss Tracer crossing to the writing table and laying the press cuttings upon it. Guyless youth. Wait till you've breathed the air of this establishment a little longer. But if he hasn't known them, why should he? For the sake of figuring among a lot of prominent personages, of course. Oh, Miss Tracer. Gospel. Taking up the press cuttings and looking through them. Many are the sympathetic souls who are grief-stricken in these days for the same reason. Here we are. Reading from a cutting. Late by Count Petersfield. Memorial service. St Margaret's Westminster. Among those present. Hmm, hmm, hmm. Sir Randall Philson. Wreaths were sent by. Hmm, hmm, hmm, hmm. Sir Randall and Lady Philson. Replacing the press cuttings upon the table. Checking herself and turning to Westrop. Our conversation is strictly private, Mr Westrop. Westrop. Somewhat disturbed. Strictly. Miss Tracer. Smiling at him, winningly. I'm moving to the settee before the fireplace. You're a nice boy. I'm sure you wouldn't make mischief. Sinking onto the settee with a yawn. Oh, I'm so weary. Vary, before you've even begun your morning's work. Before I've begun it. I had a parade downstairs in the servants' hall at a quarter to ten. Parade? With two new women in the house who are perfect idiots. I can't remember to say yes my lady and no my lady and very good my lady whenever Lady Philson speaks to them. One of them actually addressed her yesterday as ma'am. I wonder the roof didn't fall in. Hmm, I've noticed that Sir Randall and Lady Philson have a great relish for being sirred and lady'd. Ha, ha, ha, rather. Over her shoulder. You take a friendly hint. If your predecessor had Sir Randall then Lady Philson'd them more frequently, you wouldn't be standing in his shoes at this moment. Westrop, in the middle of the room, his hands in his pockets. Why was Sir Randall knighted, do you know? Built a large drill-hole for the Territorials near his country place at Bramsfold. Oh, is he interested in the Territorials? Miss Tracer, partly raising herself. Interested in the Territorials? How simple you are. He cares as much for the Territorials as I care for snakes. Kneeling upon the settee and resting her arms on the back of it, talktively. The drill-hole was her notion. She engineered the whole affair. Westrop, opening his eyes wider and wider. Lady Philson. Miss Tracer, nodding. Her maid's mind formant. A few years ago he was growing frightfully down in the mouth. He fancied he'd got stuck, as it were, that everybody was getting an honour but himself. So the blessed shanty was run up in a devil of a hurry, excuse my Greek, and as soon as it was dry, Mrs. Philson, as she then was, roged to some bigwig or other, without her husband's knowledge, she explained, and called the tension to the service he'd rendered to the cause of patriotism. Lambert saw the draft of the letter on her mistress's dressing table. And what do you think? W-well? The corrections were in his handwriting. In Sir Randall's? Miss Tracer, jumping up. Phew, I'm fearfully indiscreet. Going to Westrop untouching his coat sleeve. Between ourselves, Mr. Westrop. Westrop, moving to the Rand table. Quite quiet. Miss Tracer, following him. Oh, they're not a batsword by any means, if you just humour them a bit. We all have our little weaknesses, haven't we? I've mine, I confess. They've both been excessively kind to me. Turning to her. And as for Madame Deshami. Oh, she's a dear, a regular dear. By Jove, isn't she? But then my theory is that she was changed at her birth. She's not a genuine Filson, I'll swear. Suddenly walking away from him. Shhh! Lady Filson, a handsome complacent woman of about fifty-seven, enters from the hall. Lady Filson, who carries a handbag crammed with letters, cards of invitation, etc. Good morning. Good morning, Lady Filson. Lady Filson, closing the door and advancing. Oh, Mr. Westrop. I wish you'd try to find the last number of the trifle. It must have been taken out of my bedroom by one of the servants. Westrop, searching among the periodicals on the Rand table. Certainly, Lady Filson. Oh, Lady Filson, don't keep that horrid snapshot of you and Sir Randall. It's too unflattering. Lady Filson, at the writing-table. As if that mattered. So are the portraits of Lord and Lady Sterminster on the same page. Sitting at the table and emptying her bag. These absurd things give Sir Randall and me a hearty laugh. That's why I preserve them. It isn't here. Going to the glazed door. I'll hunt for it downstairs. Thank you. Discovering the pile of press-cuttings. What's this? Affecting annoyance. Ah, not more press-cuttings. Beginning to devour the cuttings. Ah, ch-ch-ch. As Westrop reaches the door, Bertram Filson enters. He is wearing riding-dress. Bertram, a conceited pompous young man of thirty. Good morning, Mr Westrop. Good morning, Mr Filson. Westrop goes out, closing the door. Bertram, to Miss Tracer. Good morning, Miss Tracer. Miss Tracer, who has seated herself in the chair at the further side of the writing-table. Mikri. Good morning. Lady Filson, half turning to Bertram, the press-cuttings in her hand. Ah, my darling, was that you I saw speaking to Underwood as I came through the hall? Yes, Mother dear. Bending over and kissing her. Tch, how are you? Enjoyed your ride, my pet? Fairly, Mother. Only fairly? Bertram, shutting his eyes. Such an appalling crowd of ordinary people in the row, I mean to say. Ah, how dreadful for you. Giving him the press-cuttings. Sit down, if you're not too warm, and look at this rubbish while I talk to Miss Tracer. Press-cuttings. Isn't it strange the way the papers follow all our doings? Not in the least, Mother. Sitting upon the settee on the right and reading the press-cuttings. I mean to say, I consider it perfectly right and proper. Lady Filson, sorting her letters and cards to Miss Tracer. There's not much this morning, Miss Tracer. Handing some letters to Miss Tracer. You can deal with these. Thank you, Lady Filson. Lady Filson, reading a letter. Lady Scuse and Mrs. Walter Quebec. Arranging a concert in aid of... Ah, tickets, of course. What tiring women. Turning the sheet. Oh, may they include me in their list of patronesses. Princess Cagliari Tamponi. The Countess of Harrowgate. The Viscountess Chapmell. Lady Catherine Tring. Laying the letter aside. Delighted. Heaping together the cards and the rest of the letters. I must answer those myself. To Miss Tracer. That's all. Miss Tracer rises. Get on with the invitations for July the 8th as quickly as you can. Miss Tracer, going to the glazed door. Yes, Lady Filson. Lady Filson, turning. Miss Tracer. Miss Tracer, halting. Yes, Lady Filson. I think Madame Deschaumier wants you to do some little commissions for her. Kindly see her before you go to your room. Bertram, to Miss Tracer, looking up. No, no. Don't. Not. My sister is engaged, Mother. Engaged? With Sir Timothy Berredale. Oh. To Miss Tracer. By and by then. Yes, Lady Filson. Miss Tracer departs, closing the door. Lady Filson. To Bertram eagerly. Sir Timothy. He called half an hour ago, Mother. Underwood tells me, with a note for Otterline. From himself? Presumably. And Dilworth came down and took him up to her boudoir. Lady Filson, rising. Oh, an unusual time of day for a call. Approaching Bertram and speaking under her breath. Are matters coming to a head between them, my dear boy? Don't ask me, Mother. Rising. You are as capable of forming an opinion as I am, I mean to say. I have a feeling that something is in the air. He positively shadowed her last night at the Gorehams. Bertram knitting his brows. I admit I should prefer, if my sister contemplates marrying again, that her choice fell on one of the others. Mr. Trafousis? Or George Delacour? Even Trevor Wilson? Wincing. The idea of a merchant brother-in-law doesn't appeal to me very strongly, I mean to say. Still a baronette. And I suppose. Oh, enormously. Bertram, magnanimously. Anyhow, my dear Mother, if Otterline is fond of the man, I promise you that not a murmur from me shall mar the happiness. Lady Philson, tenderly pinching his chin. My darling. Bertram, with a shiver. I'm afraid I am getting a little chilled. Giving out the press-cuttings. I'll give him change. Oh, my pet, run away at once. She moves to the settee on the right. He pauses to gaze at her. You look exceedingly handsome this morning, Mother. Lady Philson, gratified. Do I, Bertram? Seating herself upon the settee and again applying herself to the press-cuttings as Bertram goes to the guy's door. In spite of my late hours. Bertram opening the door. Here's my father. Sir Randall Philson enters, dressed in mourning. He is a man of sixty-three of commanding presence. With a head resembling that of Alexandre Dumas Fice in the portrait by Messonnier and a bland, florid manner he seems to derive much satisfaction from listening to the rich modulations of his voice. Bertram, my boy. Kissing him upon the cheek. Been riding, eh? Yes. I'm just going to change, Father. That's right. Don't risk catching cold whatever you do. Seeing Lady Philson and coming forward. Ah! Your dear mother is down. Bertram goes out, closing the door. Lady Philson beaming upon Sir Randall. You haven't been long, Randall. Sir Randall, a cloud overshadowing his face. I didn't remain for the dead march, Winnie. Taking off his black gloves. I need hardly have trouble to go at all as it turned out. Why, dear? The sad business was most abundably mismanaged. No reporters. No reporters? Not a single pressman in the porch. Blowing into a glove. Ah! Poor old MacFarlane. Pulling at his second glove. The public will never learn the names of those who assembled at serious inconvenience to themselves to pay respect to his memory. Ah! Shocking. Sir Randall, blowing. Ah! Folding the gloves neatly. I am almost glad in the circumstances, but I didn't regard it as an event which laid me under an obligation to send flowers. Er, Randall. Sir Randall, putting the gloves into his tail pocket. Yes, dear? Sir Timothy is upstairs. Sir Timothy Baradell? Lady Philson nodding. With Autorine in her sitting-room. Indeed. He brought a note for her half an hour ago, evidently asking her to receive him. Sir Randall going to Lady Philson. An early call. Extremely. Sir Randall sitting near her in the armchair on the left of the settee and pursing his lips. It may mean nothing. Oh! Nothing. Sir Randall examining his nails. A nice, amiable fellow. Full of fine qualities, if I am any judge of character. None the worse for being self-made, Winnie. Not in my estimation. Hmm. Hmm. Hmm. It wouldn't sound bad, Randall. Sir Randall leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. Lady Baradell? Lady Baradell? Sir Randall in a murmur but with great gusto. Our marriage is arranged and will shortly take place between Sir Timothy Baradell, Baronette of Sixteen the Albany and Bryston Park County Wicklow, and Otterline, widow of the late Comte de Charmille, only daughter of Sir Randall and Lady Philson of seventy-one and as more gardens and percursed Brahmsfold Sussex. Lady Philson, after a short pause. Darling Otterline, what a wedding she shall have. Again there is a pause and then Sir Randall leaves his chair and seats himself beside Lady Philson. Sir Randall putting his arm round her fondly. Mother! They look at one another and he draws her to him and kisses her. As he does so the glazed door opens and Westrop returns, carrying an illustrated weekly. Lady Philson rises hastily and goes to the writing table. Westrop handing her the paper. It was in the servant's hall, Lady Philson. Lady Philson laying the paper and the press cuttings upon the writing table and sitting at the table and busying herself with her letters. Thank you so much. Westrop to Sir Randall. Are you ready for me now, Sir Randall? Sir Randall, abstractedly. Uh, is there anything of grave importance today, Mr. Westrop? I forgot. Westrop coming to him. Boxfield and Henderson, the photographers, are anxious to photograph you and Lady Philson for their series of notable people, Sir Randall. Sir Randall rolling his head from side to side. Oh, oh dear, oh dear. Oh dear. Ah, we are pastored, Lady Philson and I. Oh, terrible. No peace, no peace. Oh, privacy. Westrop producing a notebook from his pocket. They will attend here any morning convenient to you and Lady Philson, Sir Randall. It won't take ten minutes. Sir Randall to Lady Philson, resignedly. Winnie. Lady Philson entering the appointment on a tablet. Tuesday at eleven. Sir Randall to Westrop. Remind me. Westrop writing in his notebook. Yes, Sir Randall. And advise Madame de Chomier and Mr. Bertram with my love of the appointment. Her ladyship and I will be photographed with our children grouped round us. Westrop to Sir Randall. Then there's the telegram from the Daily Monitor, Sir Randall. Sir Randall puffing himself out. Ah, yes. The editor solicits my views upon. What is the subject of the discussion which is being carried on in his admirable journal, Mr. Westrop? Should women marry under thirty? Hmm. Should women marry under thirty? To Westrop. Reply paid. Forty-eight words. Sir Randall rising and strolling across to Lady Philson, as if seeking for inspiration. Should women marry under thirty? Hmm. To Lady Philson. Winnie? Lady Philson looking up at him. I was considerably under thirty when we married, Randall. Ah, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh. Patting Lady Philson's shoulder. Clever, clever. To Westrop grandly. There we have my response to the inquiry, Mr. Westrop. Closing his eyes again. Sir Randall Philson's views are best expressed by the estatement that Lady Philson was considerably under thirty when she did him the honour of becoming his wife. Excellent, sir. Sir Randall opening his eyes. May I amplify that in graceful language, Mr. Westrop? Restricting yourself to forty-eight words. He breaks off, interrupted by the appearance of Otterlene at the glazed door. Ah, my darling. Good morning, Dad. To Westrop. Good morning. Good morning. Otterlene, to Sir Randall advancing a few steps but leaving the door open. Are you and Mother busy? Not at all. Lady Philson, who has turned in her chair at Otterlene's entrance. Not at all, Otto. Sir Randall, to Westrop. I will join you in the library, Mr. Westrop. Westrop withdraws at the door on the left and Sir Randall goes to Otterlene and embraces her. My dear child. Sir Timothy Burdell is here, Dad. I heard he had called. So sweet of him to treat us informally. Otterlene, to Lady Philson. He would like to see you and Dad for a minute or two, Mother. Charmed. Delighted. Just to...just to bid you goodbye. Goodbye? Goodbye. Yes, he's going away, Burd, for some months. With a motion of her head towards the hall. He's in the hall. May I? Lady Philson, rising. Uh, do. Do. Otterlene, returning to the door and calling. Sir Timothy. There is a brief pause, during which Sir Randall and Lady Philson interrogate each other silently, and then Sir Timothy Burdell enters. He is a well-knit, pleasant-looking Irishman of about forty, speaking with a slight brogue. Lady Philson, advancing to meet him. My dear Sir Timothy. Sir Timothy, as they shake hands. And how's my lady this morning? Are you well? Otterlene, at the door. I'll leave you. Sir Timothy, turning to her hastily. Hmm. Taking her hand. I'm not to see you again. Otterlene, shaking her head. No. Smiling. We've said good-bye upstairs. Withdrawing her hand. Couture-vous-portage. Good luck to you. Luck? I've never had anything else till now. And now, it's out entirely. Otterlene, gently. Shhh. She goes into the hall, and he stands watching her till she disappears. Then he closes at all, and faces Lady Philson and Sir Randall. Sir Timothy, mournfully but good-humently. Hmm. That's over. Over? Over? Over. Passing Lady Philson and shaking hands with Sir Randall. It might be that it'd be more decent and appropriate for me to write you a letter, Sir Randall. But I'm not much of a hand at letter writing, and I've your daughter's permission to tell you by word of mouth that she— To Lady Philson. But perhaps you can guess, both of you. Guess? Guess. Sir Timothy, rumbling his hair. The fact is, it isn't exactly easy or agreeable to describe what's occurred in plain terms. Sir Randall, encouraging me. Can't you, can't you give us a hint? A demurest hint. Hint, is it? I can manage that. With a bold effort. You're not to have me as your son-in-law. Is that hint enough? God bless me. Frankly, I had no conception. Nor I defaintest. And as I've received a great deal of kindness and hospitality in this house, I thought that, in common gratitude, I ought to explain the cause of my abrupt disappearance from your circle. Sir Randall, in a tone of deep commiseration. I—I understand. You—you intend to— To take a trip around the world. To endeavor to recover some of the wind that's been knocked out of me. Sir Randall, closing his eyes. Distressing. Distressing. Most. Coming to Sir Timothy, feeling me. Oh. Oh, Sir Timothy. Sir Timothy, with sudden bitterness. Ah. Sir Timothy. Sir Timothy. Sir Timothy. And what's the use of my baronessy now, will you inform me? The baronessy I bought and paid for, in hard cash, to better my footing in society. The mockery of it. Now that I've lost her, the one woman I shall ever love, I don't care a rat for my footing in society. Walking away. And anybody may have my baronessy for tuppence. Sir Randall, reproving me. My good friend. Sir Timothy, turning to Sir Randall and Lady Philson. And why not? The only advantage of my baronessy, it strikes me, is that I'm charged double prices at every hotel I lay my head in, and I'm expected to shower gold on the waiters. Sit him on the settee on the right, and leaning his head on his hand. Ah, the mockery of it. The mockery of it. Sir Randall, going to him. If my profound sympathy, and Lady Philson, I may speak for you, Winnie? Certainly. If our profound sympathy is the smallest consolation to you. Sir Timothy, emphatically raising his head. It is not. With a despairing gesture. I'm brokenhearted, Sir Randall. That's what I am. I'm brokenhearted. Lady Philson, sitting in the low-backed armchair on the left. Oh, dear. Sir Timothy, sighing. If I'd had the pluck to declare myself sooner, it might have been different. Staring before him. From the moment I first set eyes on her, at the dinner party you gave to welcome her on her arrival in London, from that moment I was captured completely, body and soul. The sight of her as she stood in the drawing-room beside her mother, with her pretty white face, her elegant figure, and a gown clinging to her that looked as though she'd been born in it, till never fade from me if I live to be as old as a dozen Methuselahs. Sir Randall, pryingly. Uh, has auto-line. I have no desire to probe an open wound. Has she assigned any reason? Sir Timothy, rising himself. For rejecting me. Sir Randall, with a wave of the hand. For- For not seeing her way clear. To, uh, in short, accept you? She has. Has she? The best, and for me the worst of reasons. There's another man in the case. Another? Another. Sir Randall, to Lady Philson. Extraordinary. Bewildering. We have been blind, Winnie. Absolutely. And, whoever he may be, I trust he'll worship her as devoutly as I do, and treat her with half the gentleness I'd have treated her with had she selected me for her number two. Amen. To Lady Philson. Winneveread. Amen. Sir Timothy, rising. And, with that sentiment on my lips, and in every fibre of my body, I'll relieve you of my depressing company. Going to Lady Philson, who rises at his approach, and taking her hand. My dear Lady. My dear Sir Timothy. Sir Randall, moving to the glazed door. Painful. Painful. As Sir Timothy turns from Lady Philson, Bertram reappears, in morning-dress, entering from the hall. Bertram, drawing back on seeing Sir Timothy. Oh. To Sir Randall. Am I intruding? Come in, my boy. You're just in time to give a parting grasp of the hand to our friend here. Bertram, advancing to Sir Timothy, surprised. Parting. Lady Philson, to Bertram. Sir Timothy is going abroad, Bertram. Really? To Sir Timothy. Erm, on business. Well, not precisely on pleasure. Shaking hands with Bertram. Goodbye to you. Bertram, puzzled. Goodbye. Sir Timothy makes a final bow to Lady Philson and departs, followed by Sir Randall, who leaves the door open. Bertram turns to Lady Philson inquiringly. What? Lady Philson pointing to the open door. Hush. Bertram shuts the door, and Lady Philson seats herself upon the city on the right. Bertram coming to her. What has happened, mother? What I conjectured. I was certain of it. He has proposed to my sister? Yes. Bertram struck by his mother's manner. She has refused him? Lady Philson nodding. She's a breeze with another man. Who is it? She didn't. Is it Trefusus? I believe it's Delacour. Bertram walking about. Possibly. I do hope she realises what she's doing, Bertram. Sir Timothy could buy them both up with something to spare. I agree, my dear mother. But it would have been horribly offensive to us, I mean to say, to see the name of Otterline's husband branded upon sides of bacon in the windows of the provision shops. Oh, disgusting. How sensibly you look at things, darling. Bertram taking up a position before the fireplace. Whereas George Delacour and Edward Trefusus are undeniably gentlemen. Gentlemen by birth and breeding, I mean to say. Trefusus is connected through his brother with the Northcroft. Quite so. If Otterline married Edward, she would be Lady Juliet's sister-in-law. Upon my word, Bertie, I don't know which of the two I'd rather it turned out to be.