[_Following him._] Oh, they're not a bad sort, by any means, if you just humour them a bit. We all have our little weaknesses, haven't we? I've mine, I confess. WESTRIP. They've both been excessively kind to _me_. [_Turning to her._] And as for Madame de Chaumie---- MISS TRACER. Oh, she's a dear--a regular dear! WESTRIP. [_Fervently._] By Jove, isn't she! MISS TRACER. But then, _my_ theory is that she was changed at her birth. _She's_ not a genuine Filson, I'll swear. [_Suddenly walking away from him._] H'sh! [LADY FILSON, _a handsome, complacent woman of about fifty-seven, enters from the hall._ LADY FILSON. [_Who carries a hand-bag crammed with letters, cards of invitation, etc._] Good morning. MISS TRACER _and_ WESTRIP. Good morning, Lady Filson. LADY FILSON. [_Closing the door and advancing._] Oh, Mr. Westrip, I wish you'd try to find the last number of the _Trifler_. It must have been taken out of my bedroom by one of the servants. WESTRIP. [_Searching among the periodicals on the round table._] Certainly, Lady Filson. MISS TRACER. Oh, Lady Filson, don't keep that horrid snapshot of you and Sir Randle! It's _too_ unflattering. LADY FILSON. [_At the writing-table._] As if that mattered! So are the portraits of Lord and Lady Sturminster on the same page. [_Sitting at the table and emptying her bag._] These absurd things give Sir Randle and me a hearty laugh; that's why I preserve them. WESTRIP. It isn't here. [_Going to the glazed door._] I'll hunt for it downstairs. LADY FILSON. Thank you. [_Discovering the pile of press-cuttings._] What's this? [_Affecting annoyance._] Not more press-cuttings! [_Beginning to devour the cuttings._] Tcht, tcht, tcht! [_As_ WESTRIP _reaches the door,_ BERTRAM FILSON _enters. He is wearing riding-dress._ BERTRAM. [_A conceited, pompous young man of thirty._] Good morning, Mr. Westrip. WESTRIP. Good morning, Mr. Filson. [WESTRIP _goes out, closing the door._ BERTRAM. [_To_ MISS TRACER.] Good morning, Miss Tracer. MISS TRACER. [_Who has seated herself in the chair at the further side of the writing-table--meekly._] Good morning. LADY FILSON. [_Half turning to_ BERTRAM, _the press-cuttings in her hand._] Ah, my darling! Was that you I saw speaking to Underwood as I came through the hall? BERTRAM. Yes, mother dear. [_Bending over her and kissing her._] How are you?