George. No, no! (Slight pause, and he sings again.) Of course I don't profess to know anything about painting, myself.
Olivia. You've never had time to take it up, dear.
George (coming down L. a little.) No! No! Of course I know what I like. Can't say I see much in this new-fangled stuff. If a man can paint, why can't he paint like–like Rubens, or–or Reynolds, or——
Olivia. I suppose we all have our own styles. Brian will be finding his, directly. Of course, he's only just beginning. (Pause.)
George (crossing up centre). Yes, yes. But the critics think a lot of him, what?
Olivia. Oh, yes.
George. Yes! H'm! (Pause.) Good-looking fellow.
(There is rather a longer silence this time. George coming round back of settee L. continues to hope that he is appearing casual and unconcerned–he stands looking at Olivia's work for a moment.)
George (down L.). Nearly finished 'em?
Olivia. Very nearly. (Smiling to herself, turns away to R., pretending to look for scissors.) Have you seen my scissors anywhere?