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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!
BERTRAM.
[_With a s.h.i.+ver._] I'm afraid I _am_ getting a little chilled; [_giving her the press-cuttings_] I'll go and change.
LADY FILSON.
Oh, my pet, run away at once!
[_She moves to the settee on the right. He pauses to gaze at her._
BERTRAM.
You look exceedingly handsome this morning, mother.
LADY FILSON.
[_Gratified._] Do I, Bertram? [_Seating herself upon the settee, and again applying herself to the press-cuttings, as_ BERTRAM _goes to the glazed door._] In spite of my late hours!
BERTRAM.
[_Opening the door._] Here's my father----
[SIR RANDLE FILSON _enters, dressed in mourning. He is a man of sixty-three, of commanding presence, with a head resembling that of Alexandre Dumas Fils in the portrait by Meissonier, and a bland, florid manner. He seems to derive much satisfaction from listening to the rich modulations of his voice._
SIR RANDLE.
Bertram, my boy! [_Kissing him upon the cheek._] Been riding, eh?
BERTRAM.
Yes. I'm just going to change, father.
SIR RANDLE.
That's right; don't risk catching cold, whatever you do. [_Seeing_ LADY FILSON _and coming forward._] Ah, your dear mother _is_ down!
[BERTRAM _goes out, closing the door._
LADY FILSON.
[_Beaming upon_ SIR RANDLE.] You haven't been long, Randle.
SIR RANDLE.
[_A cloud overshadowing his face._] I didn't remain for the Dead March, Winnie. [_Taking off his black gloves._] I need hardly have troubled to go at all, as it turned out.
LADY FILSON.
Why, dear?
SIR RANDLE.
The sad business was most abominably mismanaged. No reporters.
LADY FILSON.
No reporters!
SIR RANDLE.
Not a single pressman in the porch. [_Blowing into a glove._] Pfhh!
Poor old Macfarlane! [_Pulling at his second glove._] The public will never learn the names of those who a.s.sembled, at serious inconvenience to themselves, to pay respect to his memory.
LADY FILSON.
Shocking!
SIR RANDLE.
[_Blowing._] Pfhh! [_Folding the gloves neatly._] I am almost glad, in the circ.u.mstances, that I didn't regard it as an event which laid me under an obligation to send flowers.
LADY FILSON.
[_With a change of tone._] Er--Randle----
SIR RANDLE.
[_Putting his gloves into his tail-pocket._] Yes, dear.
LADY FILSON.
[_Significantly._] Sir Timothy is upstairs.
