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LADY FILSON.
[_Gulping._] Pleasure! [_Unable to repress herself._] Unmixed--! Ho, ho, ho, ho----!
SIR RANDLE.
[_Restraining her._] Winifred----!
OTTOLINE.
[_Coming to_ LADY FILSON _and touching her gently--in a low voice._]
Mother----!
PHILIP.
[_Smiling at_ OTTOLINE _apologetically._] It's my fault; I provoked that. [_Walking away to the right._] I expressed myself rather clumsily, I'm afraid.
SIR RANDLE.
[_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----
OTTOLINE.
[_Moving to the fireplace._] Yes, Dad.
PHILIP.
That is so, Sir Randle--if you and Lady Filson will have the patience----
[SIR RANDLE _motions_ PHILIP _to the settee on the right._ PHILIP _sits. Then_ OTTOLINE _sits on the settee before the fireplace, and_ SIR RANDLE _in the arm-chair by_ PHILIP. LADY FILSON _turns in her chair to listen._
SIR RANDLE.
[_To_ PHILIP, _majestically._] Before you embark upon your explanation, permit me to define _my_ position--mine and Lady Filson'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 Filson 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 different; and, to be frank--I _must_ be frank--we had hoped that, in the event of Ottoline remarrying, she would contract such a marriage as is commonly described as brilliant.
PHILIP.
[_Dryly._] Such a marriage as her marriage to Monsieur de Chaumie, for example.
SIR RANDLE.
[_Closing his eyes._] _De mortuis_, Mr. Mackworth! I must decline----
PHILIP.
I merely wished, as a basis of argument, to get at your exact interpretation of brilliancy.
SIR RANDLE.
[_Dismissing the point with a wave of the 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 RANDLE.
[_Conscientiously._] They are--I won't exaggerate--I mustn't exaggerate--they are not far removed from dismay.
LADY FILSON.
Utter dismay.
SIR RANDLE.
[_s.h.i.+fting his chair--to_ PHILIP.] I learn--I learn from Ottoline 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.
SIR RANDLE.
You have not been eminently successful?
PHILIP.
Not yet. Not with the wide public. No; not yet.
SIR RANDLE.
Forgive me--any private resources?
PHILIP.
None worth mentioning. Two-hundred-a-year, left me by an old aunt.
LADY FILSON.
[_Under her breath._] Ho----!
SIR RANDLE.
[_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 Comte de Chaumie, but by myself. [_Closing his eyes._] I have never been a n.i.g.g.ardly parent, Mr. Mackworth.
OTTOLINE.
[_Softly, without turning._] Indeed, no, Dad!
