PHILIP. [_Bitterly._] Ho! Ho, ho, ho! [_Another pause._] So when--when April comes--we--we sha'n't----! OTTOLINE. [_Lowering her eyes--all gentleness again._] We sha'n't walk under the trees in the Champs-Elysees, Phil---- PHILIP. Nor in the Allee de Longchamp--where we---- OTTOLINE. No, nor in the Allee de Longchamp. PHILIP. [_Releasing her coat and thrusting his hands into his trouser-pockets._] Somebody else'll gulp the milk at the Cafe d'Armenonville----! OTTOLINE. And at the Pre-Catalan---- PHILIP. And there'll be no one to gaze sentimentally at my old windows in the Rue Soufflot---- OTTOLINE. [_Softly._] _Quarante-trois bis._ [_Sighing._] No one. PHILIP. [_With a hollow laugh._] Ha, ha, ha! _C'est fini--apres tout!_ OTTOLINE. [_Firmly._] _C'est fini--apres tout._ [_She holds out her coat to him and he helps her into it. Suddenly, while her back is turned to him, he utters a guttural cry and grips her shoulders savagely. She turns in surprise, her hand to her shoulder._] Oh, Phil----! PHILIP. [_Pointing at her._] I see! I see! I see the end of it! You'll marry Barradell! You'll marry the fellow who's cooling his heels down below in South Square! OTTOLINE. [_Placidly, fastening her coat._] I may. PHILIP. [_Choking._] Oh----! OTTOLINE. I may, if I marry at all--and he bothers any more about me. PHILIP. [_Stamping up and down._] Bacon Barradell! Bacon Barradell! The wife of Bacon Barradell! OTTOLINE. [_With a sad smile._] He has social aims; a vulgar, pushing woman would be a serviceable partner for Sir Tim. PHILIP. Oh! Oh--! [_Dropping on to the settee on the left and burying his face in his hands._] Ho, well, more power to him! He can sell his bacon; I--I can't sell my books! [_Again there is a silence, and then, putting on her left-hand glove, she goes to_ PHILIP _and stands over him compassionately._ OTTOLINE.