LADY FILSON. [_Dotingly._] Enjoyed your ride, my pet? BERTRAM. Fairly, mother. LADY FILSON. Only fairly? BERTRAM. [_Shutting his eyes._] Such an appalling crowd of ordinary people in the Row, I mean t'say. LADY FILSON. How dreadful for you! [_Giving him the press-cuttings._] Sit down, if you're not too warm, and look at this rubbish while I talk to Miss Tracer. BERTRAM. Press-cuttings? LADY FILSON. Isn't it strange, the way the papers follow all our doings! BERTRAM. Not in the least, mother. [_Sitting upon the settee on the right and reading the press-cuttings._] I mean t'say, I consider it perfectly right and proper. LADY FILSON. [_Sorting her letters and cards--to_ MISS TRACER.] There's not much this morning, Miss Tracer. [_Handing some letters to_ MISS TRACER.] _You_ can deal with these. MISS TRACER. Thank you, Lady Filson. LADY FILSON. [_Reading a letter._] Lady Skewes and Mrs. Walter Quebec ... arranging a concert in aid of ... [_sighing_] tickets, of course!... what tiring women!... [_turning the sheet_] oh!... may they include me in their list of patronesses?... Princess Cagliari-Tamponi, the Countess of Harrogate, the Viscountess Chepmell, Lady Kathleen Tring ... [_laying the letter aside_] delighted. [_Heaping together the cards and the rest of the letters._] I must answer those myself. [_To_ MISS TRACER.] That's all. [MISS TRACER _rises._] Get on with the invitations for July the eighth as quickly as you can. MISS TRACER. [_Going to the glazed door._] Yes, Lady Filson. LADY FILSON. [_Turning._] Miss Tracer---- MISS TRACER. [_Halting._] Yes, Lady Filson? LADY FILSON. I think Madame de Chaumie wants you to do some little commissions for her. Kindly see her before you go to your room. BERTRAM. [_To_ MISS TRACER, _looking up._] No, no; don't. LADY FILSON. [_To_ BERTRAM.] Not? BERTRAM. My sister is engaged, mother. LADY FILSON. Engaged? BERTRAM. With Sir Timothy Barradell. LADY FILSON. Oh--? [_To_ MISS TRACER.] By-and-by, then. MISS TRACER. Yes, Lady Filson. [MISS TRACER _departs, closing the door._ LADY FILSON. [_To_ BERTRAM, _eagerly._] Sir Timothy----! BERTRAM. He called half-an-hour ago, mother, Underwood tells me, with a note for Ottoline.