Not——?
Philip.
He's gone to the Riviera—left this morning. [Crossing to Sir Randle and Lady Filson—appealingly.] Lady Filson—Sir Randle—you don't believe that Titterton and I could be guilty of such an arrant piece of knavery, do you? Ho, ho, ho! It's preposterous.
Sir Randle.
[Constrainedly.] Frankly—I must be frank—I hardly know what to believe.
Lady Filson.
[Pursing her mouth.] We—we hardly know what to believe.
Philip.
[Leaving them.] Ah——!
Roope.