class="actor">Philip.

Delightful.

Roope.

Er—I'd better tell you at once, old chap, whom you'll meet here to-day.

Philip.

Aha! Your tone presages a most distinguished guest. [Seating himself in the chair by the small table.] Is she a grande-duchesse, or is he a crowned head?

Roope.

[Smiling rather uneasily.] Wait. I work up to my great effect by degrees. We shall only be six. Collingham Green——

Philip.

[In disgust.] Oh, lord!

Roope.

Now, Phil, don't be naughty.

Philip.

The fellow who does the Society gossip for the Planet!

Roope.

And does it remarkably neatly, in my opinion.

Philip.

Pouah! [Leaning back in his chair, his legs outstretched, and spouting.] "Mrs. Trevelyan Potter, wearing a gown of yellow charmeuse exquisitely draped with chiffon, gave a dance for her niece Miss Hermione Stubbs at the Ritz Hotel last night." That sort o' stuff!

Roope.

[Pained.] Somebody has to supply it.

Philip.

"Pretty Mrs. Claud Grymes came on from the opera in her pearls, and Lady Beakly looked younger than her daughter in blue."

Roope.

[Ruefully.] You don't grow a bit more reasonable, Phil; not a bit.

Philip.

I beg pardon. Go ahead.

Roope.

[Sitting on the fauteuil-stool.] Mrs. Godfrey Anslow and Mrs. Wally Quebec. Abuse them.

Philip.

Bless their innocent hearts! They'll be glad to meet Mr. Green.

Roope.

I trust so.

Philip.

[Scowling.] A couple of pushing, advertising women.

Roope.

Really——!

Philip.

Ha, ha! Sorry. That's five, with you and me.

Roope.

That's five, as you justly observe. [Clearing his throat.] H'm! H'm!

Philip.

The sixth? I prepare myself for your great effect.

Roope.

[With an effort.] Er—Madame de Chaumié is in London, Phil.

Philip.

[Sitting upright.] Madame de Chaumié! [Disturbed.] Is she coming?

Roope.

Y-y-yes.

Philip.

[Rising.] Confound you, Robbie——!

Roope.

[Hastily.] She has got rid of her house in Paris and rejoined her people. She's with them in Ennismore Gardens.

Philip.

Thank you, I'm aware of it. One reads of Ottoline's movements in every rag one picks up. [Walking over to the right.] She's the biggest chasseuse of the crowd.

Roope.

I assure you she appears very much altered.

Philip.

What, can the leopard change his spots!

Roope.

Her family may still bang the big drum occasionally, and give it an extra whack on her account; but Ottoline herself——

Philip.

Faugh! [Returning to Roope.] Why the devil have you done this?

Roope.

[Feebly.] I confess, in the hope of bringing about a reconciliation.

Philip.

You—you good-natured old meddler. [Quickly.] Does she expect to find me here?

Roope.

No.

Philip.

[Making for the door on the left.] I'll bolt, then.

Roope.

[Rising and seizing him.] You shall do nothing of the kind. [Forcing him down upon the fauteuil-stool.] You'll upset my luncheon-table! [Tidying himself.] You're most inconsiderate; you are positively. And you've disarranged my necktie.

Philip.

[In a low voice.] How is she looking, Robbie?

Roope.

Brilliant. [Putting his necktie in order.] Is that straight? Brilliant.

Philip.

[Gazing into space.] Ten years ago, old man!

Roope.

Quite.

Philip.

It was at her father and mother's, in Paris, that I made your acquaintance. Recollect?

Roope.

Perfectly; in the Avenue Montaigne. I had a flat in the Palais-Royal at the time.

Philip.

[Scornfully.] You were one of the smart set. It was worth their while to get hold of you.

Roope.

My dear Phil, do be moderately fair. You weren't in the smart set.

Philip.

No; I was trying my hand at journalism in those days. Dreadful trade! I was Paris correspondent to the Whitehall Gazette. That's why I was favoured. [Abruptly.] Robbie——

Roope.

Hey?

Philip.

You'll scarcely credit it. One evening, while I was at work, Ottoline turned up with her maid at my lodgings in the Rue Soufflot, sent the maid out of the room, and proposed that I should "mention" her family in my letters to the Whitehall.

Roope.

Mention them?

Philip.

Drag in allusions to 'em constantly—their entertainments and so forth; boom them, in fact.

Roope.

Was that the cause of the—the final——?

Philip.

[Nodding.] Yes. The following week her engagement to de Chaumié was announced.

Roope.

[After a slight pause.] Well, in spite of all this, I'm convinced she was genuinely attached to you, Phil—as fond of you as you were of her.

Philip.

[Resting his head on his hands.] Oh, shut up!

Roope.

Anyhow, here's an opportunity of testing it, dear excellent friend. She's been a widow twelve months; you need have no delicacy on that score.

Philip.

[Looking up.] Why, do you suggest——?

Roope.

Certainly; and without delay. I hear there's a shoal of men after her, including Tim Barradell.

Philip.

[With a grim smile.] "Bacon" Barradell?

Roope.

[Assentingly.] They say Sir Timothy's in constant attendance.

Philip.

And what chance, do you imagine, would a poor literary cove stand against a real live baronet—and the largest bacon-curer in Ireland?

Roope.

[Rubbing his chin.] You never know. Women are romantic creatures. She might prefer the author of those absorbing works of fiction whose pages often wrap up Tim Barradell's rashers.

Philip.

[Rising.] Ha, ha, ha! [Giving himself a shake.] Even so it can't be done, Robbie; though I'm grateful to you for your amiable little plot. [Walking about.] Heavens above, if Ottoline married me, she'd be puffing my wares on the sly before the honeymoon was half over!

Roope.

And a jolly good job too. [Moving to the left, peevishly.] The truth is, my dear Phil, you're a crank—an absolute crank—on the subject of the—ah—the natural desire of some people to keep themselves in the public eye. Mercy on us, if it comes to that, I'm an advertiser!

Philip.

If it comes to that, you miserable old sinner, you are.

Roope.

I admit it, frankly. I own it gratifies me exceedingly to see my little dinner-parties and tea-parties, here or at my club, chronicled in the press. And it gratifies my friends also. Many of them wouldn't honour me at all if my list of guests wasn't in the fashionable intelligence next