Belinda. So was Keats, darling.
Delia. I don't think Claude has had Keats' advantages. Keats started life as an apothecary.
Belinda. So much nicer than a chemist.
Delia. Now, Claude started with nothing to do.
Belinda (mildly). Do you always call him Claude, darling? I hope you aren't going to grow into a flirt like that horrid Mrs. Tremayne.
Delia. Silly mother! (She moves to Belinda, takes her cup, then crosses to the table and places both the cups on the table–seriously.) I don't think he'll ever be any good till he really gets work. Did you notice his hair this evening?
Belinda (dreamily). Whose, dear?
Delia (going to the back of the Chesterfield and to the L. of Belinda). Mummy, look me in the eye and tell me you are not being bad.
Belinda (having playfully turned her head away and hidden her face with her handkerchief, says innocently). Bad, darling?
Delia (moving down to the front of the fireplace). You've made Mr. Robinson fall in love with you.