Your father may do as he chooses. [_Rising and crossing to the writing-table, where she sits and prepares to write._] I have letters to answer. OTTOLINE. [_To_ SIR RANDLE.] Dad----? SIR RANDLE. [_Rising._] Impossible--impossible. [_Marching to the fireplace._] I cannot act apart from your dear mother. [_His back to the fireplace, virtuously._] I never act apart from your dear mother. OTTOLINE. _Comme vous voudrez!_ [_Moving to the glazed door and there pausing._] You _won't_----? [SIR RANDLE _blinks at the ceiling again._ LADY FILSON _scribbles audibly with a scratchy pen._ OTTOLINE _goes out, closing the door._ BERTRAM. [_Jumping up as the door shuts--in an expostulatory tone._] Good heavens! My dear father--my dear mother----! SIR RANDLE. [_Coming to earth._] Eh? BERTRAM. [_Agitatedly._] My sister will pack her trunks and be off to an hotel if you're not careful. She won't stand this, I mean t'say. There'll be a marriage at the registrar's, or some ghastly proceeding--a scandal--all kinds of gossip----! LADY FILSON. [_Throwing down her pen and rising--holding her heart._] Oh----! BERTRAM. [_With energy._] I mean to say----! SIR RANDLE. [_To_ LADY FILSON, _blankly._] Winnie----? LADY FILSON. R-Randle----? SIR RANDLE. [_Biting his nails._] He's right. [BERTRAM _hastens to the glazed door._] Dear Bertram is right. BERTRAM. [_Opening the door._] You'll see him----? LADY FILSON. Y-yes. SIR RANDLE. Yes. [BERTRAM _disappears._ SIR RANDLE _paces the room at the back, waving his arms._] Oh! Oh! LADY FILSON. [_Going to the fireplace._] I won't be civil to him, Randle! The impertinence of his visit! I won't be civil to him! SIR RANDLE. A calamity! An unmerited calamity! LADY FILSON. [_Dropping on to the settee before the fireplace._] She's mad! That's the only excuse I can make for her! SIR RANDLE. Stark mad! A calamity. LADY FILSON. You remember the man? SIR RANDLE. [_Taking a book from the rack on the oblong table and hurriedly turning its pages._] A supercilious, patronizing person--son of a wretched country parson--used to loll against the wall of your _salon_--with his nose in the air. LADY FILSON. [_Tearfully._] A stroke of bad fortune at last, Randle! Fancy! Everything has always gone so well with us----!