OTTOLINE. [_Withdrawing her hands._] Zut! [_Moving slowly towards the glazed door._] You have acquitted yourself bravely, _mon cher Monsieur Philippe_! [_Shrugging her shoulders._] Say good-bye and let me turn you out in disgrace. PHILIP. [_Deprecatingly._] Ha, ha, ha! [_Going to_ LADY FILSON.] Good-bye, Lady Filson. [_She rises and shakes hands with him._] Have I bought my right of _entree_? I may ring your bell at discreet intervals till the end of the season? LADY FILSON. [_Stiffly._] Ottoline is her own mistress, Mr. Mackworth; [_more amiably_] but apart from her, you will receive a card from me--music--Tuesday, July the eighth. [_He bows and she crosses to the fireplace. Then he shakes hands with_ SIR RANDLE, _who has risen and is standing in the middle of the room._ PHILIP. [_To_ SIR RANDLE.] Good-bye. SIR RANDLE. [_Detaining_ PHILIP, _searchingly._] Er--pardon me--this new novel of yours, on which you place so much reliance--pray don't think me curious---- OTTOLINE. [_Suddenly._] Ha! [_Coming to the back of the settee on the right, her eyes gleaming scornfully at_ SIR RANDLE.] Tell my father, Philip--tell him---- PHILIP. [_Shaking his head at her and frowning._] Otto---- OTTOLINE. Do; as you told it to me yesterday. [_Satirically._] It will help him to understand why your name has escaped him in the great journals! SIR RANDLE. Any confidence you may repose in me, Mr. Mackworth---- OTTOLINE. [_Prompting_ PHILIP.] It's called--_allons! racontez donc!_---- PHILIP. [_After a further look of protest at_ OTTOLINE--_to_ SIR RANDLE, _hesitatingly_.] It's called "The Big Drum," Sir Randle. SIR RANDLE. [_Elevating his eyebrows._] "The Big Drum"? [_With an innocent air._] Military? PHILIP. No; social. SIR RANDLE. Social? PHILIP. [_Leaning against the arm-chair on the left of the settee on the right._] It's an attempt to portray the struggle for notoriety--for self-advertisement--we see going on around us to-day. SIR RANDLE. Ah, yes; lamentable! PHILIP.