Ottoline.
[Withdrawing her hand.] What did that show, Phil? It showed—as your compromise with mother and Dad showed afterwards—that the success of the book you were engaged upon came first with you; that marrying me was to be only an incident in your career; that you didn't love me sufficiently to bend your pride or vary your programme a jot. [He gets to his feet, startled, dumbfoundered. He attempts to speak, but she checks him.] H'sh! H'sh! I'm scolding you; but, for your sake, I wouldn't have it otherwise. Now that I'm sane and cool, I wouldn't have it otherwise.
Philip.
[Struggling for words—thickly.] Ottoline—Ottoline—[his voice dying away] I——!
Ottoline.
[Taking his hands in hers.] Good-bye. Don't come downstairs with me. Let me leave you sitting at your table, at work—at work on that incomplete chapter. We shall tumble up against one another, I dare say, at odd times, but this is the last we shall see of each other dans l'intimité; and I want to print on my memory the sight of you—[pointing to the writing-table] there—keeping your flag flying. [Putting her arms round him—in a whisper.] Keep your flag flying, Philip! Don't—don't sulk with your art, and be false to yourself, because a trumpery woman has fretted and disturbed you. Keep your flag flying—[kissing him] my—my dear hero!
[She untwines her arms and steps back. Slowly, with his hands hanging loosely, and his chin upon his breast, Philip passes her and goes to the writing-table. There, dully and mechanically, he takes the unfinished page of manuscript from the portfolio, arranges it upon the blotting-pad and, seating himself at the table, picks up his pen. Very softly Ottoline opens the vestibule door, gives Philip a last look over her shoulder, and enters the vestibule, closing the door behind her. There is a pause, during which Philip sits staring at his inkstand, and then the outer door slams. With an exclamation, Philip drops his pen, leaps up, and rushes to the vestibule door.
Philip.
Otto! Otto! [Loudly.] Ottoline——!
[With his hand on the door-handle, he wavers, his eyes shifting wildly to and from the writing-table. Then, with a mighty effort, he pulls himself together, strides to the smoking-table, and loads and lights his pipe. Puffing at his pipe fiercely, he reseats himself before his manuscript and, grabbing his pen, forces himself to write. He has written a word or two when he falters—stops—and lays his head upon his arm on the table.