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LADY FILSON.
Ten years!
PHILIP.
[_To_ SIR RANDLE.] I began soon after I left Paris.
SIR RANDLE.
And what ground, sir, have you for antic.i.p.ating that you will _ever_ achieve popularity as a writer?
LADY FILSON.
[_Sitting in the chair by the round table._] Preposterous!
OTTOLINE.
[_Stamping her foot._] Mother----! [_To_ SIR RANDLE.] Philip has high expectations of his next novel, Dad. It is to be published in the autumn--September.
SIR RANDLE.
[_To_ PHILIP.] And should that prove no more successful with the "wide public" than those which have preceded it----?
PHILIP.
Then I--then I fling another at 'em.
SIR RANDLE.
Which would occupy you----?
PHILIP.
Twelve months.
LADY FILSON.
And if _that_ fails----!
PHILIP.
[_Smiling again, but rather constrainedly._] Ah, you travel too quickly for me, Lady Filson--you and Sir Randle! You heap disaster on disaster----
SIR RANDLE.
If _that_ fails, another twelve-months' labour!
LADY FILSON.
While my daughter is wasting the best years of her life!
SIR RANDLE.
[_Indignantly._] Really, Mr. Mackworth! [_Throwing himself upon the settee on the right._] Really! I appeal to you! Is this fair?
LADY FILSON.
Is it fair to Ottoline?
OTTOLINE.
_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. _Mon Dieu!_ I am relieved to think that some of my best years are still mine to squander!
SIR RANDLE.
[_To_ PHILIP, _who is standing by the writing-table in thought, a look of disquiet on his face--persistently._] Mr. Mackworth----!
OTTOLINE.
[_Rising impatiently._] My dear Dad--my dear mother--I propose that we postpone this discussion until Mr. Mackworth's new book _has_ failed to attract the public, [_crossing to_ SIR RANDLE] and that in the meantime he sha'n't be scowled at when he presents himself in Ennismore Gardens.
[_Seating herself beside_ SIR RANDLE _and slipping her arm through his._] Dad----!
LADY FILSON.
[_To_ PHILIP.] Mr. Mackworth----!
PHILIP.
[_Rousing himself and turning to_ SIR RANDLE _and_ LADY FILSON_--abruptly._]
Look here, Sir Randle! Look here, Lady Filson! I own that this arrangement between Ottoline and me is an odd one. It was arrived at yesterday impulsively; and, in her interests, there _is_ a good deal to be said against it.
LADY FILSON.
There's nothing to be said _for_ it. Oh----!
SIR RANDLE.
[_To_ LADY FILSON.] Winifred--[_To_ PHILIP.] Well, Mr. Mackworth?
PHILIP.
Well, Sir Randle, 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 Ottoline to break with me. Come! Does that mollify you?
[_There is a short silence._ SIR RANDLE _and_ LADY FILSON _look at each other in surprise and_ OTTOLINE _stares at_ PHILIP _open-mouthed._
OTTOLINE.
Philip----!
