Philip.
My dear, what does it matter as long as our roads meet at last, and meet where there are clear pools to bathe our vagabond feet and sunshine to heal our sore bodies! [She raises her head and rummages for her handkerchief.] Otto——!
Ottoline.
Yes?
Philip.
In April—eh——?
Ottoline.
[Drying her eyes.] April——?
Philip.
You haven't forgotten the compact we entered into at Robbie Roope's?