[Hotly.] Think——!
Ottoline.
No, no—soberly, steadily, searchingly. Evidently not, cher ami! [Bending forward.] Phil, after what has happened, can't you see me as I really am?
Philip.
As you—are?
Ottoline.
An incurably vulgar woman. An incurably common, vulgar woman. Nobody but a woman whose vulgarity is past praying for could have conceived such a scheme as I planned and carried out with that man Clifford Titterton—nobody. This—how shall I term it?—this refinement of mine is merely on the surface. We women are like the—what's the name of the little reptile?—the chameleon, isn't it? We catch the colour of our surroundings. But what we were, we continue to be—in the grain. The vulgar-minded Ottoline Filson, who captivated, and disgusted, you in Paris is before you at this moment. The only difference is that then she was a natural person, and now she plays les grands rôles. [Sitting upright and pressing her temples.] Oh, I have fooled myself as well as you, Phil—deluded myself——!
Philip.
You're dog-tired, Otto. Your brain's in a fever. All you've done, you've done from your love for me, my dear—your deep, passionate love——
Ottoline.