SIR RANDLE. [_Suddenly, groaning._] Oh! LADY FILSON. [_Over her shoulder._] What is it? I can't bear much more---- SIR RANDLE. He isn't even in _Who's Who_, Winnie! [BERTRAM _returns, out of breath._ BERTRAM. I caught her on the stairs. [_Closing the door._] She'll bring him down. LADY FILSON. [_Weakly._] I won't be civil to him. I refuse to be civil to him. SIR RANDLE. [_Replacing the book in the rack and sitting in the chair at the oblong table--groaning again._] Oh! [_There is a short silence._ BERTRAM _slowly advances._ BERTRAM. [_Heavily, drawing his hand across his brow._] Of course, my dear father--my dear mother--we must do our utmost to quash it--strain every nerve, I mean t'say, to stop my sister from committing this stupendous act of folly. LADY FILSON. [_Rocking herself to and fro._] Oh! Oh! SIR RANDLE. A beggarly author! BERTRAM. [_The picture of dejection._] But if the worst comes to the worst--if she's obdurate, I mean t'say--an alliance between Society and Literature--I suppose there's no actual disgrace in it. SIR RANDLE. A duffer--a duffer whose trash doesn't sell----! LADY FILSON. Taking advantage of a silly, emotional woman, to feather his nest! SIR RANDLE. [_Rising and pacing up and down between the glazed door and the settee on the right._] I shall have difficulty--[_shaking his uplifted fist_] I shall have difficulty in restraining myself from denouncing Mr. Mackworth in her presence! BERTRAM. [_Dismally._] As to the wedding, there's no reason that I can see--because a lady marries a literary man, I mean t'say--why the function should be a shabby one. LADY FILSON. [_Rising and moving about at the back distractedly._] That it sha'n't be! If we can't prevent my poor girl from throwing herself away, I'm determined her _wedding_ shall be smart and impressive! SIR RANDLE. [_Bitterly, with wild gestures._] "The interesting engagement is announced of Mr.--Mr.----" BERTRAM. [_Wandering to the fireplace, his chin on his breast._] Philip, father. SIR RANDLE. "--Mr. Philip Mackworth, the well-known novelist, to Ottoline, widow of the late Comte de Chaumie--[_peeping into the hall through the side of one of the curtains of the glazed door--his voice dying to a mutter_] only daughter of Sir Randle and Lady Filson----" LADY FILSON. "Mrs.--Philip--Mackworth"! Ha, ha, ha! Mrs. Philip Nobody!