dly surprised, Ottoline.

OTTOLINE.

Ah, but I don't mean surprised at my--having made Sir Timothy unhappy;
I mean surprised at hearing there is--someone else----

SIR RANDLE.

My dear child, _that_ surprises us even less.

LADY FILSON.

Your dear father and I, Ottoline, are not unaware of the _many_
eligible men who are--how shall I put it?--pursuing you with their
attentions.

SIR RANDLE.

Parents are notoriously short-sighted; but they are not
necessarily--er--what are the things?--tssh!--the creatures that
flutter----

BERTRAM.

Bats, father.

SIR RANDLE.

[_To_ BERTRAM.] Thank you, my boy.

OTTOLINE.

[_In a rigid attitude._] It's cowardly of me perhaps, but I almost wish
I had told Sir Timothy--a little more----

LADY FILSON.

Cowardly?

OTTOLINE.

So that he might have taken the edge off the announcement I'm going to
make--and spared me----

SIR RANDLE.

The edge----?

LADY FILSON.

_Spared_ you--? [_Staring at_ OTTOLINE.] Ottoline, what on earth----!

OTTOLINE.

[_Relaxing._] Oh, I know I'm behaving as if I were a girl instead of a
woman who has been married--a widow--free--independent--[_to_ SIR
RANDLE] thanks to your liberality, Dad! But, being at home, I seem to
have lost, in a measure, my sense of personal liberty----

SIR RANDLE.

[_Blandly but uneasily._] My child!

OTTOLINE.

That's _it_! Child! Now that I've returned to you, I'm still a
child--still an object for you to fix your hopes and expectations upon.
The situation has slipped back, in your minds, pretty much to what it
was in the old days in the Avenue Montaigne. You may protest that it
isn't so, but it _is_. [_Attempting a laugh._] That's why my knees are
shaking at this moment, and my spine's all of a jelly! [_She rises and
goes to the chair at the writing-table and grips the chair-rail. The
others follow her apprehensively with their eyes._] I--I'm afraid I'm
about to disappoint you.

LADY FILSON.

H-how?

SIR RANDLE.

Disap-poin