[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?