[_Taking a cigarette from the box at his side._] Ottoline and I are to be married soon after Christmas. The civilized world is to be startled by the announcement on Monday. ROOPE. [_Advancing._] My dear chap, I've never heard anything that has given me greater pleasure. [PHILIP _offers_ ROOPE _the cigarette-box._] No, I won't smoke. [_Seating himself upon the settee on the right._] When was it settled? PHILIP. [_Lighting his cigarette._] The day before yesterday. I got Titterton to write me a letter--Titterton, my publisher--certifying to the enormous sales of the book, and sent it on to Sir Randle Filson. Nothing like documentary evidence, Robbie. [_Leaning back in his chair with outstretched legs and exhaling a wreath of tobacco-smoke._] Twenty-five thousand copies, my boy, up to date, and still going strong. ROOPE. Wonderful. PHILIP. Phew! The critics treated me generously enough, but it hung fire damnably at first. At one particularly hellish moment I could have sworn it wouldn't do more than my usual fifteen or eighteen hundred, and I cursed myself for having been such a besotted fool as to pin my faith to it. [_Sitting upright._] And then, suddenly, a rush--a tremendous rush! Twenty-four thousand went off in less than six weeks. Almost uncanny, eh? [_Touching the tobacco-jar._] Oh, lord, sometimes I think I've been putting opium into my pipe instead of this innocent baccy, and that I shall wake up to the necessity of counting my pence again and apologizing to John for being in arrear with his wages! ROOPE. And Titterton's letter brought the Filsons round? PHILIP. [_Nodding._] Brought 'em round; and I must say they've accomplished the change of attitude most graciously. ROOPE. [_Oracularly._] Graciously or grudgingly, they couldn't help themselves, dear excellent friend. As you had pledged yourself in effect to resign the lady if your book was a failure, it follows that they were bound to clasp you to their bosoms if it succeeded. I don't want to detract from the amiability of the Filsons for an instant---- PHILIP. Anyhow, their opposition is at an end, and all is rosy. [_Rising and pacing the room._] Master Bertram is a trifle glum and stand-offish perhaps, but Sir Randle--! Ha, ha, ha! Sir Randle has taken Literature under his wing, Robbie, from Chaucer to Kipling, in the person of his prospective son-in-law. You'd imagine, to listen to him, that to establish ties of relationship with a literary man has been his chief aim in life. ROOPE. [_Jerking his head in the direction of the dining-room._] And this is to be a family gathering----? PHILIP.