Oh, Lady Filson, don't keep that horrid snapshot of you and Sir Randle! It's too unflattering.
Lady Filson.
[At the writing-table.] As if that mattered! So are the portraits of Lord and Lady Sturminster on the same page. [Sitting at the table and emptying her bag.] These absurd things give Sir Randle and me a hearty laugh; that's why I preserve them.
Westrip.
It isn't here. [Going to the glazed door.] I'll hunt for it downstairs.
Lady Filson.
Thank you. [Discovering the pile of press-cuttings.] What's this? [Affecting annoyance.] Not more press-cuttings! [Beginning to devour the cuttings.] Tcht, tcht, tcht!
[As Westrip reaches the door, Bertram Filson enters. He is wearing riding-dress.
Bertram.
[A conceited, pompous young man of thirty.] Good morning, Mr. Westrip.