[_Rising, with a gesture of disgust._] Ah----! SIR RANDLE. [_To_ BERTRAM.] Really! Really, Bertram----! [_Seeing_ OTTOLINE _rise,_ PHILIP _also rises and comes to her._ LADY FILSON. That a son of mine should countenance----! OTTOLINE. [_Panting._] Oh, but this is--this is outrageous! [_To_ SIR RANDLE _and_ LADY FILSON.] Dad--mother--why should we degrade ourselves by listening any further? [_To_ PHILIP.] Philip----! PHILIP. [_Patting her shoulder soothingly._] Tsch, tsch, tsch----! BERTRAM. [_To_ LADY FILSON _and_ SIR RANDLE.] My dear mother--my dear father--you're so impatient! PHILIP. [_To_ OTTOLINE.] Tsch, tsch! Go back to the fire and toast your toes again. BERTRAM. I consider I was fully justified, I mean t'say---- [_Falteringly_ OTTOLINE _returns to the fireplace. She stands there for a few seconds, clutching the mantel-shelf, and then subsides into the chair before the fire._ PHILIP _advances to the settee on the right._ PHILIP. [_To_ DUNNING.] Sorry we have checked your flow of eloquence, Mr. Dunning, even for a moment. [_Sitting._] I wouldn't miss a syllable of it. [_Airily._] Do, please, continue. SIR RANDLE. [_Looking at his watch._] My dear Philip----! BERTRAM. [_To_ DUNNING, _wearily._] Oh, come to the man--what's his name, Dunning?--Merryweather----! DUNNING. [_Turning several pages of his note-book with his wet thumb._] Merrifield. BERTRAM. Merrifield. [_Passing behind_ DUNNING _and half-seating himself on the further end of the table on the left._] Skip everything in between; [_sarcastically_] my father and mother are dying for their dinner. LADY FILSON. Bertram! DUNNING. [_Finding the memorandum he is searching for, and quoting from it._] Henry Merrifield--entry clerk to Titterton--left Titterton, after a row, on the fifteenth of the present month---- BERTRAM. A stroke of luck--Mr. Merrifield--if ever there was one! I mean t'say---- DUNNING.