e of the smart set. It was worth their while
to get hold of _you_.

ROOPE.

My dear Phil, do be moderately fair. _You_ weren't in the smart
set.

PHILIP.

No; I was trying my hand at journalism in those days. Dreadful trade! I
was Paris correspondent to the _Whitehall Gazette_. That's why _I_ was
favoured. [_Abruptly._] Robbie----

ROOPE.

Hey?

PHILIP.

You'll scarcely credit it. One evening, while I was at work, Ottoline
turned up with her maid at my lodgings in the Rue Soufflot, sent the
maid out of the room, and proposed that I should "mention" her family
in my letters to the _Whitehall_.

ROOPE.

Mention them?

PHILIP.

Drag in allusions to 'em constantly--their entertainments and so forth;
boom them, in fact.

ROOPE.

Was that the cause of the--the final----?

PHILIP.

[_Nodding._] Yes. The following week her engagement to de Chaumie was
announced.

ROOPE.

[_After a slight pause._] Well, in spite of all this, I'm convinced she
was genuinely attached to you, Phil--as fond of you as you were of her.

PHILIP.

[_Resting his head on his hands._] Oh, shut up!

ROOPE.

Anyhow, here's an opportunity of testing it, dear excellent friend.
She's been a widow twelve months; you need have no delicacy on that
score.

PHILIP.

[_Looking up._] Why, do you suggest----?

ROOPE.

Certainly; and without delay. I hear there's a shoal of men after her,
including Tim Barradell.

PHILIP.

[_With a grim smile._] "Bacon" Barradell?

ROOPE.

[_Assentingly._] They say Sir Timothy's in constant attendance.

PHILIP.

And what chance, do you imagine, would a poor literary cove stand
against a real live baronet--and the largest bacon-curer in Ireland?

ROOPE.

[_Rubbing his chin._] You never know. Women are romantic creatures. She
_might_ prefer the author of those absorbing works of fiction whose
pages often wrap up Tim Barradell's rashers.

PHILIP.

[_Rising._]