Belinda (smiling mysteriously and coyly). Well, not always, of course.
Delia (excitedly, at she slips off the table, and backing to L. a little). Mummy, I believe you're being bad again.
Belinda. Really, darling, you forget that I'm old enough to be–in fact, am–your mother.
Delia (nodding her head). You are being bad.
Belinda (rising with dignity and drawing herself up to her full height, moving L.). My child, that is not the way to–Oh, I say, what a lot taller I am than you! (Turning her back to Delia and comparing sizes.)
Delia. And prettier.
Belinda (playfully rubbing noses with Delia). Oh, do you think so? (Firmly, but pleased.) Don't be silly, child.
Delia (holding up a finger). Now tell me all that's been happening here at once.
Belinda (with a sigh). And I was just going to ask you how you were getting on with your French. (Sits in deck-chair.)
Delia. Bother French! You've been having a much more interesting time than I have, so you've got to tell.