Roope.
[Rubbing his chin.] You never know. Women are romantic creatures. She might prefer the author of those absorbing works of fiction whose pages often wrap up Tim Barradell's rashers.
Philip.
[Rising.] Ha, ha, ha! [Giving himself a shake.] Even so it can't be done, Robbie; though I'm grateful to you for your amiable little plot. [Walking about.] Heavens above, if Ottoline married me, she'd be puffing my wares on the sly before the honeymoon was half over!
Roope.
And a jolly good job too. [Moving to the left, peevishly.] The truth is, my dear Phil, you're a crank—an absolute crank—on the subject of the—ah—the natural desire of some people to keep themselves in the public eye. Mercy on us, if it comes to that, I'm an advertiser!
Philip.
If it comes to that, you miserable old sinner, you are.
Roope.
I admit it, frankly. I own it gratifies me exceedingly to see my little dinner-parties and tea-parties, here or at my club, chronicled in the press. And it gratifies my friends also. Many of them wouldn't honour me at all if my list of guests wasn't in the fashionable intelligence next morning.