SON.

[_Going to the fireplace._] I won't be civil to him, Randle! The
impertinence of his visit! I won't be civil to him!

SIR RANDLE.

A calamity! An unmerited calamity!

LADY FILSON.

[_Dropping on to the settee before the fireplace._] She's mad! That's
the only excuse I can make for her!

SIR RANDLE.

Stark mad! A calamity.

LADY FILSON.

You remember the man?

SIR RANDLE.

[_Taking a book from the rack on the oblong table and hurriedly turning
its pages._] A supercilious, patronizing person--son of a wretched
country parson--used to loll against the wall of your _salon_--with his
nose in the air.

LADY FILSON.

[_Tearfully._] A stroke of bad fortune at last, Randle! Fancy!
Everything has always gone so well with us----!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Suddenly, groaning._] Oh!

LADY FILSON.

[_Over her shoulder._] What is it? I can't bear much more----

SIR RANDLE.

He isn't even in _Who's Who_, Winnie!

[BERTRAM _returns, out of breath._

BERTRAM.

I caught her on the stairs. [_Closing the door._] She'll bring him
down.

LADY FILSON.

[_Weakly._] I won't be civil to him. I refuse to be civil to him.

SIR RANDLE.

[_Replacing the book in the rack and sitting in the chair at the oblong
table--groaning again._] Oh!

[_There is a short silence._ BERTRAM _slowly advances._

BERTRAM.

[_Heavily, drawing his hand across his brow._] Of course, my dear
father--my dear mother--we must do our utmost to quash it--strain every
nerve, I mean t'say, to stop my sister from committing this stupendous
act of folly.

LADY FILSON.

[_Rocking herself to and fro._] Oh! Oh!

SIR RANDLE.

A beggarly author!

BERTRAM.

[_The picture of dejection._] But if the worst comes to the worst--if
she's obdurate, I mean t'say--an alliance between Society and
Literature--I suppose there's no actual disgrace in it.

SIR RANDLE.

A duffer--a duffer whose trash doesn't sell----!