n the member's of
one's own family, Dad, can't impute unworthy motives.

SIR RANDLE.

[_To_ PHILIP, _incredulously--rising._] Until you have obtained public
recognition, Mr. Mackworth?

PHILIP.

[_Smiling._] Well, it may sound extravagant----

LADY FILSON.

Grotesque!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Walking about on the extreme right._] Amazing!

OTTOLINE.

Why grotesque; why amazing? [_Sitting in the low-backed arm-chair._]
All that is amazing about it is that Philip should lack the superior
courage which enables a man, in special circumstances, to sink his
pride and ignore ill-natured comments.

PHILIP.

[_To_ LADY FILSON.] At any rate, this is the arrangement that Ottoline
and I have entered into; and I suggest, with every respect, that you
and Sir Randle should raise no obstacle to my seeing her under your
roof occasionally.

LADY FILSON.

As being preferable to hole-and-corner meetings in friends' houses----!

OTTOLINE.

[_Coolly._] Or under lamp-posts in the streets--yes, mother.

LADY FILSON.

[_Rising and crossing to the round table._] Ottoline----!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Bearing down upon_ PHILIP.] May I ask, Mr. Mackworth, how long you
have been following your precarious profession? Pardon my ignorance. My
reading is confined to our great journals; and _there_ your name has
escaped me.

PHILIP.

Oh, I've been at it for nearly ten years.

LADY FILSON.

Ten years!

PHILIP.

[_To_ SIR RANDLE.] I began soon after I left Paris.

SIR RANDLE.

And what ground, sir, have you for anticipating 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 pr