Miss Fairfield. And I suppose that’s all you’ll say.
Sydney comes out of her room. She is physically a bigger, fairer edition of Margaret, but there the likeness ends. Her manner is brisk and decided. She is very sure of herself, but when she loses her temper, as she often does, she loses her aplomb and reveals the schoolgirl. Her attitude to the world is that of justice, untempered, except where her mother is in question, by mercy. But she is very fond of her mother.
Sydney. [Running down the stairs] Merry Christmas, everyone! I’m not late, am I? Morning, Auntie! What, no post?
Margaret. It gets later every year.
Miss Fairfield. I’m very much obliged to you, Sydney, for the—card-case.
Sydney. [Undoing her parcels] It’s a cigarette case, Auntie dear. You see, I thought if you gave me a prayer-book again we might do a deal. Ah, I thought so! Thanks most awfully. It’s sweet of you. Shall we?
Miss Fairfield. What?
Sydney. Swop.
Margaret. Sydney, dear, that’s rather rude.
Sydney. [Swiftly] Well, Mother, I hate being hinted at.