ld enable
me to fill my lungs with fresh air? Who _are_ they, these enterprising
men----?

PHILIP.

[_Leaving her abruptly and going to the mantelpiece._] Oh, pray don't
ask _me_! I don't know who the fellows are--except--they say--Sir
Timothy Barradell----

OTTOLINE.

[_Lightly but softly._] Sir Timothy! Sir Timothy has only just
succeeded in fighting his way into the world I'm sick and tired of!
[_Shaking her head._] Poor Sir Tim! [_Pityingly._] Ha, ha, ha, ha!

PHILIP.

[_His back towards her._] Otto----

OTTOLINE.

Yes?

PHILIP.

What sort of world would you be willing to exchange for your present
one, my dear?

OTTOLINE.

What sort----?

PHILIP.

What sort--spiritual and material?

OTTOLINE.

[_Resting her elbow upon the arm of her chair and her chin upon her
hand, musingly._] Oh, I believe any world would content me that's
totally different from the world I've lived in so long; any world that
isn't flat and stale and stifling; that isn't made up of shams, and
petty aims and appetites; any world that--well, such a world as you
used to picture, Phil, when you preached your gospel to a selfish,
common girl under the chestnuts in the Allee de Longchamp and the
Champs-Elysees! [_Half laughing, half sighing._] Ha, la, la, la!

[_Again there is a pause, and then he walks to the
further window and gazes into the street once more._

PHILIP.

[_In a low voice._] Ten years ago, Otto!

OTTOLINE.

Ten years ago!

PHILIP.

[_Partly in jest, partly seriously._] Do the buds still sprout on those
trees in the Allee de Longchamp and the Champs-Elysees, can you tell
me?

OTTOLINE.

[_Falling in with his humour._] Ha, ha! Every spring, _cher ami_,
regularly.

PHILIP.

And the milk at the Cafe d'Armenonville and the Pre-Catelan--is it
still rich and delectable?

OTTOLINE.

To the young, I assume; scarcely to the aged widow----!

PHILIP.

Or the grey-haired scribbler! Ha, ha, ha, ha!

OTTOL