Your father may do as he chooses. [Rising and crossing to the writing-table, where she sits and prepares to write.] I have letters to answer.
Ottoline.
[To Sir Randle.] Dad——?
Sir Randle.
[Rising.] Impossible—impossible. [Marching to the fireplace.] I cannot act apart from your dear mother. [His back to the fireplace, virtuously.] I never act apart from your dear mother.
Ottoline.
Comme vous voudrez! [Moving to the glazed door and there pausing.] You won't——?
[Sir Randle blinks at the ceiling again. Lady Filson scribbles audibly with a scratchy pen. Ottoline goes out, closing the door.
Bertram.
[Jumping up as the door shuts—in an expostulatory tone.] Good heavens! My dear father—my dear mother——!