Ottoline.
[Walking away to the front of the fauteuil-stool.] To beg you to prôner my father and mother in the journal you were writing for—what was the name of it?——
Philip.
[Following her.] The Whitehall Gazette.
Ottoline.
And you were polite enough to tell me that my cravings and ideals were low, pitiful, ignoble!
Philip.
[Regretfully.] You remember?
Ottoline.
[Facing him.] As clearly as you do, my friend. [Laying her hand upon his arm, melting.] Besides, they were true—those words—hideously true—as were many other sharp ones you shot at me in Paris. [Turning from him.] Low—pitiful—ignoble——!