to do some little commissions for
her. Kindly see her before you go to your room.

BERTRAM.

[_To_ MISS TRACER, _looking up._] No, no; don't.

LADY FILSON.

[_To_ BERTRAM.] Not?

BERTRAM.

My sister is engaged, mother.

LADY FILSON.

Engaged?

BERTRAM.

With Sir Timothy Barradell.

LADY FILSON.

Oh--? [_To_ MISS TRACER.] By-and-by, then.

MISS TRACER.

Yes, Lady Filson.

[MISS TRACER _departs, closing the door._

LADY FILSON.

[_To_ BERTRAM, _eagerly._] Sir Timothy----!

BERTRAM.

He called half-an-hour ago, mother, Underwood tells me, with a note for
Ottoline.

LADY FILSON.

From himself?

BERTRAM.

Presumably; and Dilworth came down and took him up to her boudoir.

LADY FILSON.

[_Rising._] An unusual time of day for a call! [_Approaching_ BERTRAM
_and speaking under her breath._] Are matters coming to a head between
them, my dear boy?

BERTRAM.

Don't ask _me_, mother. [_Rising._] You are as capable of forming an
opinion as I am, I mean t'say.

LADY FILSON.

I've a feeling that _something_ is in the air. He positively shadowed
her last night at the Gorhams'!

BERTRAM.

[_Knitting his brows._] I admit I should prefer, if my sister contemplates
marrying again, that her choice fell on one of the others.

LADY FILSON.

Mr. Trefusis--or George Delacour----?

BERTRAM.

Even Trevor Wilson. [_Wincing._] The idea of a merchant brother-in-law
doesn't appeal to me very strongly, I mean t'say.

LADY FILSON.

Still, a baronet----!

BERTRAM.

And I suppose----?

LADY FILSON.

Oh, enormously!

BERTRAM.

[_Magnanimously._] Anyhow, my dear mother, if Ottoline is fond of the
man, I promise you that not a murmur from me shall mar their happiness.

LADY FILSON.

[_Tenderly, pinching his chin._] My darling!