Sydney. [Stricken] I—I suppose I am.
Kit. One minute you’re as nice as pie, and then you fizz up like a seidlitz powder, all about nothing.
Sydney. All about nothing. Sorry, my old Kit, sorry! [She flings herself down on the sofa. Then, with an effort] Come and talk. What’s the news?
Kit. I told you it all this morning. What’s yours?
Sydney. I like yours better. How’s the pamphlet going?
Kit. Nearly done. I put in all your stuff.
Sydney. [Absently] Good.
Kit. Though you know, I don’t agree with it. What I feel is—you’re not listening.
Sydney. [Slowly] Kit, talking of that paper—I read somewhere—suppose now—is it true it can skip a generation?
Kit. It? What?