[Nodding.] Brought 'em round; and I must say they've accomplished the change of attitude most graciously.
Roope.
[Oracularly.] Graciously or grudgingly, they couldn't help themselves, dear excellent friend. As you had pledged yourself in effect to resign the lady if your book was a failure, it follows that they were bound to clasp you to their bosoms if it succeeded. I don't want to detract from the amiability of the Filsons for an instant——
Philip.
Anyhow, their opposition is at an end, and all is rosy. [Rising and pacing the room.] Master Bertram is a trifle glum and stand-offish perhaps, but Sir Randle—! Ha, ha, ha! Sir Randle has taken Literature under his wing, Robbie, from Chaucer to Kipling, in the person of his prospective son-in-law. You'd imagine, to listen to him, that to establish ties of relationship with a literary man has been his chief aim in life.
Roope.
[Jerking his head in the direction of the dining-room.] And this is to be a family gathering——?
Philip.
The first in the altered circumstances. I proposed a feast at a smart restaurant, but Sir Randle preferred the atmosphere which has conduced, as he puts it, to the creation of so many of my brilliant compositions. [Behind the smoking-table, dropping the end of his cigarette into the ash-tray—gaily.] Robbie, I've had a magnificent suit of joy-rags made for the occasion!
Roope.