! [_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