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[_Somewhat disturbed._] Strictly.
MISS TRACER.
[_Smiling at him winningly and moving to the settee before the fireplace._] You're a nice boy; I'm sure you wouldn't make mischief.
[_Sinking on to the settee with a yawn._] Oh! Oh, I'm so weary!
WESTRIP.
Weary? Before you've begun your morning's work!
MISS TRACER.
_Before_ I've begun it! I had a parade downstairs in the servants' hall at a quarter-to-ten.
WESTRIP.
Parade?
MISS TRACER.
We've two new women in the house who are perfect idiots. They _can't_ remember to say "yes, my lady" and "no, my lady" and "very good, my lady" whenever Lady Filson speaks to them. One of them actually addressed her yesterday as "ma'am." I wonder the roof didn't fall in.
WESTRIP.
[_Meditatively._] I've noticed that Sir Randle and Lady Filson have a great relish for being Sir'd and Lady'd.
MISS TRACER.
Ha, ha! Rather! [_Over her shoulder._] _You_ take a friendly hint. If your predecessor had Sir Randle'd and Lady Filson'd them more frequently, you wouldn't be standing in his shoes at this moment.
WESTRIP.
[_In the middle of the room, his hands in his pockets._] Why _was_ Sir Randle knighted, do you know?
MISS TRACER.
Built a large drill-hall for the Territorials near his country place at Bramsfold.
WESTRIP.
[_Innocently._] 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, talkatively._] The drill-hall was _her_ notion; she engineered the whole affair.
WESTRIP.
[_Opening his eyes wider and wider._] Lady Filson?
MISS TRACER.
[_Nodding._] Her maid's my informant. 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. Filson, as she then was, wrote to some big-wig or other--without her husband's knowledge, she explained--and called attention to the service he'd rendered to the cause of patriotism.
Lambert saw the draft of the letter on her mistress's dressing-table.
[_Shaking with laughter._] Ho, ho, ho! And what d'ye think?
WESTRIP.
W-well?
MISS TRACER.
The corrections were in _his_ handwriting!
WESTRIP.
[_Shocked._] In Sir Randle's----!
MISS TRACER.
[_Jumping up._] Phiou! I'm fearfully indiscreet. [_Going to_ WESTRIP _and touching his coat-sleeve._] Between ourselves, Mr. Westrip!
WESTRIP.
[_Moving to the round table._] Quite--quite.
MISS TRACER.
[_Following him._] Oh, they're not a bad sort, by any means, if you just humour them a bit. We all have our little weaknesses, haven't we?
I've mine, I confess.
WESTRIP.
They've both been excessively kind to _me_. [_Turning to her._] And as for Madame de Chaumie----
MISS TRACER.
Oh, she's a dear--a regular dear!
WESTRIP.
[_Fervently._] By Jove, isn't she!
MISS TRACER.
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._] H's.h.!.+
