know. [He acknowledges the information by a stiff bow. She interests herself in her glove-buttons.] You—you've chosen to drop out of my—out of our lives so completely that I hardly like to ask you to come and see us.

Philip.

[Constrainedly.] You are very good; but I—I don't go about much in these days, and I'm afraid——

Ottoline.

[Quickly.] Oh, I'm sure you're wise. [Drawing herself erect.] A writer shouldn't give up to society what is meant for mankind, should he?

[She passes him distantly, to leave the room, and he suddenly grips her shoulder.

Philip.

Ottoline——!

[By a mutual impulse, they glance swiftly at the open door, and then she throws herself into his arms.

Ottoline.

Philip——!

[Just as swiftly, they separate; and a moment afterwards Roope returns, rubbing his hands cheerily.

Roope.

[Advancing, but not shutting the door.] There! Now we're by ourselves! [To Ottoline.] You're not running away?

Ottoline.

[Confused.] Oh, I—I——

Roope.

It's only half-past-three. Why don't you and Mackworth sit down and have a little talk together? [To Philip, who has strolled to the further window and is looking into the street.] You're in no hurry, Phil?

Philip.

Not in the least.

Roope.

[Crossing to the writing-table.] I'll finish answering my letters; I sha'n't have a moment later on. [Gathering up his correspondence.] You won't disturb me; I'll polish 'em off in another room. [To Ottoline.] Are you goin' to Lady Paulton's by-and-by, by any chance?

Ottoline.

[Again at the fireplace, her back to Roope and Philip.] And Mrs. Jack Cathcart's—and Mrs. Le Roy's——

Roope.

You shall take me to Lowndes Square, if you will. [Recrossing.] Sha'n't be more than ten minutes. [At the door.] Ten minutes, dear excellent friends. A quarter-of-an-hour at the outside.

[He vanishes, closing the door. There is a pause, and then Philip and Ottoline turn to one another and he goes to her.

Ottoline.

[Her hands in his, breathlessly.] You are glad to see me, then! [Laughing shyly.] Ha, ha! You are glad!

Philip.

[Tenderly.] Yes.

Ottoline.

You brute, Phil, to make me behave in such an undignified way!

Philip.

If there's any question of dignity, what on earth has become of mine? I was the first to break down.

Ottoline.

To break down! Why should you try to treat me so freezingly? You can't be angry with me still, after all these years! C'est pas possible!

Philip.

It was stupid of me to attempt to hide my feelings. [Pressing her hand to his lips.] But, my dear Otto—my dear girl—where's the use of our coming into each other's lives again?

Ottoline.

The use—? Why shouldn't we be again as we were in the old Paris days—[embarrassed] well, not quite, perhaps——?

Philip.

[Smiling.] Oh, of course, if you command it, I am ready to buy some smart clothes, and fish for opportunities of meeting you occasionally on a crowded staircase or in a hot supper-room. But—as for anything else——

Ottoline.

[Slowly withdrawing her hands and putting them behind her.] As for—anything else——?

Philip.

I repeat—cui bono? [Regarding her kindly but penetratingly.] What would be the result of your reviving a friendship with an ill-tempered, intolerant person who would be just as capable to-morrow of turning upon you like a savage——?

Ottoline.

Ah, you are still angry with me! [With a change of tone.] As you did that evening, for instance, when I came with Nannette to your shabby little den in the Rue Soufflot——

Philip.

Precisely.

Ottoline.

[Walking away to the front of the fauteuil-stool.] To beg you to prôner my father and mother in the journal you were writing for—what was the name of it?——

Philip.

[Following her.] The Whitehall Gazette.

Ottoline.

And you were polite enough to tell me that my cravings and ideals were low, pitiful, ignoble!

Philip.

[Regretfully.] You remember?

Ottoline.

[Facing him.] As clearly as you do, my friend. [Laying her hand upon his arm, melting.] Besides, they were true—those words—hideously true—as were many other sharp ones you shot at me in Paris. [Turning from him.] Low—pitiful—ignoble——!

Philip.

Otto——!

[She seats herself in the chair by the fauteuil-stool and motions him to sit by her. He does so.

Ottoline.

Yes, they were true; but they are true of me no longer. I am greatly changed, Philip.

Philip.

[Eyeing her.] You are more beautiful than ever.

Ottoline.

H'sh!—changed in my character, disposition, view of things. Life has gone sadly with me since we parted.

Philip.

Indeed? I—I'm grieved.

Ottoline.

My marriage was an utter failure. You heard?

Philip.

[Shaking his head.] No.

Ottoline.

No? [Smiling faintly.] I thought everybody hears when a marriage is a failure. [Mournfully.] The fact remains; it was a terrible mistake. Poor Lucien! I don't blame him for my nine years of unhappiness. I engaged myself to him in a hurry—out of pique——

Philip.

Pique?

Ottoline.

Within a few hours of that fatal visit of mine to your lodgings. [Looking at him significantly.] It was that that drove me to it.

Philip.

[Staring at her.] That——!

Ottoline.

[Simply.] Yes, Phil.

Philip.

Otto!

Ottoline.

[Plucking at the arm of her chair.] You see—you see, notwithstanding the vulgarity of my mind, I had a deep respect for you. Even then there were wholesome signs in me! [Shrugging her shoulders plaintively.] Whether I should have ended by obeying my better instincts, and accepting you, I can't say. I believe I should. I—I believe I should. At any rate, I had already begun to chafe under the consciousness that, while you loved me, you had no esteem for me.

Philip.

[Remorsefully.] My dear!

Ottoline.

[Raising her head.] That scene between us in the Rue Soufflot set my blood on fire. To have a request refused me was sufficiently mortifying; but to be whipped, scourged, scarified, into the bargain—! I flew down your stairs after I left you, and drove home, scorching with indignation; and next morning I sent for Lucien—a blind adorer!—and promised to be his wife. [Leaning back.] Comprenez-vous, maintenant? Solely to hurt you; to hurt you, the one man among my acquaintances whom I—admired!

[She searches for her handkerchief. He rises and goes to