[Stamping up and down.] Bacon Barradell! Bacon Barradell! The wife of Bacon Barradell!
Ottoline.
[With a sad smile.] He has social aims; a vulgar, pushing woman would be a serviceable partner for Sir Tim.
Philip.
Oh! Oh—! [Dropping on to the settee on the left and burying his face in his hands.] Ho, well, more power to him! He can sell his bacon; I—I can't sell my books!
[Again there is a silence, and then, putting on her left-hand glove, she goes to Philip and stands over him compassionately.
Ottoline.
Mon pauvre Philippe, it's you, not I, who will take another view of things to-morrow. [He makes a gesture of dissent.] Ah, come, come, come! You have never loved me as I have loved you. Unconsciously—without perceiving it—one may be half a poseuse; but at least I've been sincere in my love for you, and in hungering to be your wife. [Giving him her right hand.] You're the best I've ever known, dear; by far the best I've ever known. [He presses her hand to his brow convulsively.] But when we had our talk in South Audley Street, how did you serve me? You insisted on my waiting—waiting; I who had cherished your image in my mind for years! You guessed I shouldn't have patience—you almost prophesied as much; but still—I was to wait!
Philip.
[Inarticulately.] Oh, Otto!