almost sprang at my throat--I was considering that it isn't at all
unlikely that Madame de Chaumie's frame of mind is a trifle less
inflexible this morning. _She_ has slept--or laid awake--on the events
of last night too, recollect.

PHILIP.

[_Raising his head._] Having been kicked out of this place a few hours
ago, her affection for me revives with the rattle of the milk-cans!

ROOPE.

[_Evasively._] At any rate, she must be conscious that you were
smarting under provocation. She confessed as much during our talk.
[_Magnanimously._] Even _I_ admit you had provocation.

PHILIP.

_That_ never influenced a woman, Robbie. Besides, I've insulted this
one before--grossly insulted her, in the old days in Paris----

ROOPE.

Ancient history! _My_ advice is--since you invite it--my advice is that
you write her a letter----

PHILIP.

I've composed half-a-dozen already. [_Pointing to a waste-paper basket
by the writing-table._] The pieces are in that basket.

ROOPE.

No, no; not a highly-wrought performance. Simply a line, asking her to
receive you. [PHILIP _rises listlessly._] Send it along by messenger.
[_With growing enthusiasm._] Look here! I'll take it!

PHILIP.

[_Gloomily, his hand on Roope's shoulder._] Ho, ho! You--you
indefatigable old Cupid!

ROOPE.

[_Looking at his watch._] Quarter-past-ten. [_Excitedly._] Phil, I bet
you a hundred guineas--[_correcting himself_] er--well--five pounds--I
bet you five pounds I'm with you again, with a favourable reply, before
twelve!

PHILIP.

[_Clapping_ ROOPE _on the back._] Done! [_Crossing to the writing-table._]
At the worst, I've earned a fiver.

ROOPE.

[_As_ PHILIP _sits at the table and takes a sheet of paper and an
envelope from a drawer._] May I suggest----?

PHILIP.

[_Dipping his pen in the ink._] Fire away, old chap.

ROOPE.

[_Seeking for inspiration by gazing at the ceiling._] H'm--[_Dictating._]
"Forgive me. I forgive you. When may I come to you?" [_To_ PHILIP.] Not
another word.

PHILIP.

[_As he writes._] By George, you've got the romantic touch, R