[They go out.
MARION (sitting down at the writing-table). He seems a nice man. About thirty-five, wouldn’t you say—or more?
SEPTIMA. Forty. But you never can tell with men. (She comes to the table.)
MARION (getting to work). Now those letters just want putting into their envelopes. And those want [194]envelopes written for them. If you will read out the addresses, dear—I think that will be the quickest way—I will——
SEPTIMA (thinking her own thoughts). Mother!
MARION. Yes, dear? (Writing) Doctor John Treherne.
SEPTIMA. I want to speak to you.
MARION. Do you mean about anything important?
SEPTIMA. For me, yes.
MARION. You haven’t annoyed your grandfather, I hope.