Sydney. [Strung up to breaking point] Mother, you shall not.
Margaret. [As they both turn] Sydney!
Sydney. [Coming down to them] I tell you—I tell you, you shall not.
Margaret. [Sitting down, with a listless gesture] I must. There’s no way out.
Sydney. There is. For you there is. I’ve thought it all along, and now I know. Father—he’s my job, not yours.
Margaret. [With a last flicker of passion] D’you think I’ll make a scape-goat of my own child?
Sydney. [Sternly] Can you help it? I’m his child. [She throws herself down beside her] Mother! Mother darling, don’t you see? You’re no good to him. You’re scared of him. But I’m his own flesh and blood. I know how he feels. I’ll make him happier than you can. Be glad for me. Be glad I’m wanted somewhere.
Margaret. [Struggling against the hope that is flooding her] But Kit, Sydney—Kit?
Sydney. [With a queer little laugh that ends, though it does not begin, quite naturally] Bless him, I’ll be dancing at his wedding in six months.
Margaret. But all you ought to have—