[ACT I.]
[The Drawing-room in a biggish suburban villa—The furniture, &c., are in middling taste. EDGAR TIMBRELL, an ordinary young man of nearly thirty in neat tweeds is sprawling self-consciously on the sofa. ADA and SHEILA are opening a parcel. They are the ordinary middle-class young women who might develop in all manner of unexpected ways and usually do not.]
SHEILA. Come and look, Edgar.
ADA. He’s only pretending not to care.
SHEILA. Lend me your knife. [She takes it from him and cuts the string.] I brought this over without opening it just to let you see it too.
EDGAR. For Heaven’s sake remember who sent them all.
SHEILA. It’s all right. Ada’s keeping a list.
EDGAR. Well, get all the fun out of it you can. You won’t often have the chance of being married.
SHEILA. [Opening the parcel.] Oh! how nice! What do you mean, Edgar? I’ve had lots of chances.
EDGAR. You can’t go on having them now, though.