BERTRAM.

[_With a shiver._] I'm afraid I _am_ getting a little chilled; [_giving
her the press-cuttings_] I'll go and change.

LADY FILSON.

Oh, my pet, run away at once!

[_She moves to the settee on the right. He pauses to
gaze at her._

BERTRAM.

You look exceedingly handsome this morning, mother.

LADY FILSON.

[_Gratified._] Do I, Bertram? [_Seating herself upon the settee, and
again applying herself to the press-cuttings, as_ BERTRAM _goes to the
glazed door._] In spite of my late hours!

BERTRAM.

[_Opening the door._] Here's my father----

[SIR RANDLE FILSON _enters, dressed in mourning. He is a
man of sixty-three, of commanding presence, with a head
resembling that of Alexandre Dumas Fils in the portrait
by Meissonier, and a bland, florid manner. He seems to
derive much satisfaction from listening to the rich
modulations of his voice._

SIR RANDLE.

Bertram, my boy! [_Kissing him upon the cheek._] Been riding, eh?

BERTRAM.

Yes. I'm just going to change, father.

SIR RANDLE.

That's right; don't risk catching cold, whatever you do. [_Seeing_ LADY
FILSON _and coming forward._] Ah, your dear mother _is_ down!

[BERTRAM _goes out, closing the door._

LADY FILSON.

[_Beaming upon_ SIR RANDLE.] You haven't been long, Randle.

SIR RANDLE.

[_A cloud overshadowing his face._] I didn't remain for the Dead March,
Winnie. [_Taking off his black gloves._] I need hardly have troubled to
go at all, as it turned out.

LADY FILSON.

Why, dear?

SIR RANDLE.

The sad business was most abominably mismanaged. No reporters.

LADY FILSON.

No reporters!

SIR RANDLE.

Not a single pressman in the porch. [_Blowing into a glove._] Pfhh!
Poor old Macfarlane! [_Pulling at his second glove._] The public will
never learn the names of those who assembled, at serious inconvenience
to themselves, to pay respect to his memory.

LA