[Abruptly.] What's the time, Dad?
Sir Randle.
[Looking at a clock standing on a commode against the wall on the right.] Twenty minutes past eleven.
Ottoline.
He—he will be here at half-past. Don't be angry. I've asked him to come—to explain his position clearly to you and mother with regard to me. There's to be nothing underhand—rien de secret!
Lady Filson.
A-asked whom?
Ottoline.
[Throwing her head back.] Ho! You'll think I'm ushering in an endless string of lovers this morning! I promise you this is the last.
Sir Randle.