PHILIP.

[_To_ SIR RANDLE.] Good-bye.

SIR RANDLE.

[_Detaining_ PHILIP, _searchingly._] Er--pardon me--this new novel of
yours, on which you place so much reliance--pray don't think me
curious----

OTTOLINE.

[_Suddenly._] Ha! [_Coming to the back of the settee on the right, her
eyes gleaming scornfully at_ SIR RANDLE.] Tell my father, Philip--tell
him----

PHILIP.

[_Shaking his head at her and frowning._] Otto----

OTTOLINE.

Do; as you told it to me yesterday. [_Satirically._] It will help him
to understand why your name has escaped him in the great journals!

SIR RANDLE.

Any confidence you may repose in me, Mr. Mackworth----

OTTOLINE.

[_Prompting_ PHILIP.] It's called--_allons! racontez donc!_----

PHILIP.

[_After a further look of protest at_ OTTOLINE--_to_ SIR RANDLE,
_hesitatingly_.] It's called "The Big Drum," Sir Randle.

SIR RANDLE.

[_Elevating his eyebrows._] "The Big Drum"? [_With an innocent air._]
Military?

PHILIP.

No; social.

SIR RANDLE.

Social?

PHILIP.

[_Leaning against the arm-chair on the left of the settee on the
right._] It's an attempt to portray the struggle for notoriety--for
self-advertisement--we see going on around us to-day.

SIR RANDLE.

Ah, yes; lamentable!

PHILIP.

[_Deliberately, but losing himself in his subject as he proceeds._] It
shows a vast crowd of men and women, sir, forcing themselves upon
public attention without a shred of modesty, fighting to obtain it as
if they are fighting for bread and meat. It shows how dignity and
reserve have been cast aside as virtues that are antiquated and
outworn, until half the world--the world that should be orderly,
harmonious, beautiful--has become an arena for the exhibition of vulgar
ostentation or almost superhuman egoism--a cockpit resounding with
raucous voices bellowing one against the other!

SIR RANDLE.

[_Closing his eyes._] A terrible picture!

LADY FILSON.

[_Closing her eyes._] Terrible.