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I've composed half-a-dozen already. [_Pointing to a waste-paper basket by the writing-table._] The pieces are in that basket.
ROOPE.
No, no; not a highly-wrought performance. Simply a line, asking her to receive you. [PHILIP _rises listlessly._] Send it along by messenger.
[_With growing enthusiasm._] Look here! I'll take it!
PHILIP.
[_Gloomily, his hand on Roope's shoulder._] Ho, ho! You--you indefatigable old Cupid!
ROOPE.
[_Looking at his watch._] Quarter-past-ten. [_Excitedly._] Phil, I bet you a hundred guineas--[_correcting himself_] er--well--five pounds--I bet you five pounds I'm with you again, with a favourable reply, before twelve!
PHILIP.
[_Clapping_ ROOPE _on the back._] Done! [_Crossing to the writing-table._]
At the worst, I've earned a fiver.
ROOPE.
[_As_ PHILIP _sits at the table and takes a sheet of paper and an envelope from a drawer._] May I suggest----?
PHILIP.
[_Dipping his pen in the ink._] Fire away, old chap.
ROOPE.
[_Seeking for inspiration by gazing at the ceiling._] H'm--[_Dictating._]
"Forgive me. I forgive you. When may I come to you?" [_To_ PHILIP.] Not another word.
PHILIP.
[_As he writes._] By George, you've got the romantic touch, Robbie! If you'd been a literary bloke, what sellers _you'd_ have written!
ROOPE.
[_Behind the smoking-table, smoothing his hair complacently._] Funny, your remark. As a matter of fact, I _used_ to dabble a little in pen-and-ink as a young man.
PHILIP.
[_Reading, a tender ring in his voice._] "Forgive me. I forgive you.
When may I come to you?" [_Adding his signature._] "Philip."
ROOPE.
Admirable!
PHILIP.
[_Folding and enclosing the note--catching some of_ ROOPE_'s hopefulness._]
In the meantime I'll array myself in my Sunday-best--[_moistening the envelope_] on the chance----
ROOPE.
Do; at once. [_Putting on his hat._] She _may_ summon you by telephone----
PHILIP.
[_Addressing the envelope._] She gave me a scarf-pin yesterday--such a beauty. [_Softly._] I'll wear it. [_Rising and giving the note to_ ROOPE.] Bless you, old boy!
[ROOPE _pockets the note, grasps_ PHILIP_'s hand hurriedly, and bustles to the vestibule door._
ROOPE.
My quickest way is the Tube to Bayswater, and then a taxi across the Park----
[_He has entered the vestibule--omitting to close the door in his haste--and has opened the outer door when_ PHILIP _calls to him._
PHILIP.
[_Standing behind the smoking-table--with a change of manner._] Robbie----
ROOPE.
Hey?
PHILIP.
Robbie--[ROOPE _returns to_ PHILIP _reluctantly, leaving the outer door open._] Oh, Robbie--[_gripping_ ROOPE's _arm_] how I boasted to you of my triumph--my grand victory! How I swaggered and bellowed, and crowed over you----!
ROOPE.
[_Fidgeting to get away._] Yes, but we won't discuss that now, Phil----
PHILIP.
[_Detaining him._] Wait. [_Brokenly._] Robbie--should Ottoline show any inclination to--to patch matters up, you may tell her--as from me--that I--I've done with it.
ROOPE.
[_Wonderingly._] Done with it?
PHILIP.
My career as a writing-man. It's finished. [_Hanging his head._] I'm sorry to break faith with her people; but she may take me, if she will, on her own terms--a poor devil who has proved a duffer at his job, and who is content henceforth to be nothing but her humble slave and dependant.
ROOPE.
