t us?

OTTOLINE.

[_Abruptly._] What's the time, Dad?

SIR RANDLE.

[_Looking at a clock standing on a commode against the wall on the
right._] Twenty minutes past eleven.

OTTOLINE.

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 underhand--_rien de secret_!

LADY FILSON.

A-asked whom?

OTTOLINE.

[_Throwing her head back._] Ho! You'll think I'm ushering in an endless
string of lovers this morning! I promise you this is the last.

SIR RANDLE.

_Who_ is coming?

OTTOLINE.

[_Sitting at the writing-table and, her elbows on the table, supporting
her chin on her fists._] Mr. Mackworth.

LADY FILSON.

[_After a pause._] Mackworth?

OTTOLINE.

Philip Mackworth.

LADY FILSON.

[_Dully._] Isn't he the journalist man you--you carried on with once,
in Paris?

OTTOLINE.

What an expression, mother! Well--yes.

SIR RANDLE.

[_Simply._] Good God!

OTTOLINE.

He doesn't write for the papers any longer.

LADY FILSON.

W-what----?

OTTOLINE.

A novelist chiefly.

LADY FILSON.

[_Faintly._] Oh!

SIR RANDLE.

Successful?

OTTOLINE.

It depends on what you call success.

SIR RANDLE.

_I_ call success what everybody calls success.

BERTRAM.

[_Rising, stricken._] There are novelists and novelists, I mean t'say.

OTTOLINE.

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 FILSON.

[_Searching for her handkerchief._] Where--where have you----?

OTTOLINE.

I met him yesterday at Robbie Roope's, at lunch. [LADY FILSON _finds
her handkerchief and applies it to h