Kit. My dear girl, we’re not all fools where women are concerned.
Sydney. I admire your air of conviction.
Kit. Don’t be clever-clever, old thing. Be— [His arm slips round her.]
Sydney. [Edging away] Don’t.
Kit. [He glances round hastily at Margaret, but she is deep in writing.] Why not?
Sydney. [Deliberately] I hate being pawed. [A pause.]
Kit. Look here, Sydney, d’you call this a way of spending Christmas afternoon?
Sydney. [Her lip quivering] It isn’t much of a way, is it?
Kit. Well then, old thing! [Again the arm.]