Madame de Chaumie----

MISS TRACER.

Oh, she's a dear--a regular dear!

WESTRIP.

[_Fervently._] By Jove, isn't she!

MISS TRACER.

But then, _my_ theory is that she was changed at her birth. _She's_ not
a genuine Filson, I'll swear. [_Suddenly walking away from him._] H'sh!

[LADY FILSON, _a handsome, complacent woman of about
fifty-seven, enters from the hall._

LADY FILSON.

[_Who carries a hand-bag crammed with letters, cards of invitation,
etc._] Good morning.

MISS TRACER _and_ WESTRIP.

Good morning, Lady Filson.

LADY FILSON.

[_Closing the door and advancing._] Oh, Mr. Westrip, I wish you'd try
to find the last number of the _Trifler_. It must have been taken out
of my bedroom by one of the servants.

WESTRIP.

[_Searching among the periodicals on the round table._] Certainly, Lady
Filson.

MISS TRACER.

Oh, Lady Filson, don't keep that horrid snapshot of you and Sir Randle!
It's _too_ unflattering.

LADY FILSON.

[_At the writing-table._] As if that mattered! So are the portraits of
Lord and Lady Sturminster on the same page. [_Sitting at the table and
emptying her bag._] These absurd things give Sir Randle and me a hearty
laugh; that's why I preserve them.

WESTRIP.

It isn't here. [_Going to the glazed door._] I'll hunt for it
downstairs.

LADY FILSON.

Thank you. [_Discovering the pile of press-cuttings._] What's this?
[_Affecting annoyance._] Not more press-cuttings! [_Beginning to devour
the cuttings._] Tcht, tcht, tcht!

[_As_ WESTRIP _reaches the door,_ BERTRAM FILSON
_enters. He is wearing riding-dress._

BERTRAM.

[_A conceited, pompous young man of thirty._] Good morning, Mr.
Westrip.

WESTRIP.

Good morning, Mr. Filson.

[WESTRIP _goes out, closing the door._

BERTRAM.

[_To_ MISS TRACER.] Good morning, Miss Tracer.

MISS TRACER.

[_Who has seated herself in the chair at the further side of the
writing-table--meekly._] Good morning.