OLIVIA. Go and catch them up now. We'll talk about it later on.
BRIAN. Bless you. Righto.
(As he goes out by the windows, GEORGE comes in at the door. GEORGE stands looking after him, and then turns to OLIVIA, who is absorbed in her curtains. He walks up and down the room, fidgeting with things, waiting for her to speak. As she says nothing, he begins to talk himself, but in an obviously unconcerned way. There is a pause after each answer of hers, before he gets out his next remark.)
GEORGE (casually). Good-looking fellow, Strange.
OLIVIA (equally casually). Brian—yes, isn't he? And such a nice boy. . .
GEORGE. Got fifty pounds for a picture the other day, didn't he? Hey?
OLIVIA. Yes. Of course he has only just begun. . . .
GEORGE. Critics think well of him, what?
OLIVIA. They all say he has genius. Oh, I don't think there's any doubt about it. . .
GEORGE. Of course, I don't profess to know anything about painting.