LADY FILSON.

[_Half turning to_ BERTRAM, _the press-cuttings in her hand._] Ah, my
darling! Was that you I saw speaking to Underwood as I came through the
hall?

BERTRAM.

Yes, mother dear. [_Bending over her and kissing her._] How are you?

LADY FILSON.

[_Dotingly._] Enjoyed your ride, my pet?

BERTRAM.

Fairly, mother.

LADY FILSON.

Only fairly?

BERTRAM.

[_Shutting his eyes._] Such an appalling crowd of ordinary people in
the Row, I mean t'say.

LADY FILSON.

How dreadful for you! [_Giving him the press-cuttings._] Sit down, if
you're not too warm, and look at this rubbish while I talk to Miss
Tracer.

BERTRAM.

Press-cuttings?

LADY FILSON.

Isn't it strange, the way the papers follow all our doings!

BERTRAM.

Not in the least, mother. [_Sitting upon the settee on the right and
reading the press-cuttings._] I mean t'say, I consider it perfectly
right and proper.

LADY FILSON.

[_Sorting her letters and cards--to_ MISS TRACER.] There's not much
this morning, Miss Tracer. [_Handing some letters to_ MISS TRACER.]
_You_ can deal with these.

MISS TRACER.

Thank you, Lady Filson.

LADY FILSON.

[_Reading a letter._] Lady Skewes and Mrs. Walter Quebec ... arranging
a concert in aid of ... [_sighing_] tickets, of course!... what tiring
women!... [_turning the sheet_] oh!... may they include me in their
list of patronesses?... Princess Cagliari-Tamponi, the Countess of
Harrogate, the Viscountess Chepmell, Lady Kathleen Tring ... [_laying
the letter aside_] delighted. [_Heaping together the cards and the rest
of the letters._] I must answer those myself. [_To_ MISS TRACER.]
That's all. [MISS TRACER _rises._] Get on with the invitations for July
the eighth as quickly as you can.

MISS TRACER.

[_Going to the glazed door._] Yes, Lady Filson.

LADY FILSON.

[_Turning._] Miss Tracer----

MISS TRACER.

[_Halting._] Yes, Lady Filson?

LADY FILSON.

I think Madame de Chaumie wants you