ANABEL. Yes, do.
WINIFRED. Won't you tell me about something else you made—something lovely?
ANABEL. Well, I did a small kitten—asleep—with its paws crossed. You know, Winifred, that wonderful look that kittens have, as if they were blown along like a bit of fluff—as if they weighed nothing at all, just wafted about—and yet so ALIVE—do you know—-?
WINIFRED. Darlings—darlings—I love them!
ANABEL. Well my kitten really came off—it had that quality. It looked as if it had just wafted there.
WINIFRED. Oh, yes!—oh, I know! And was it in clay?
ANABEL. I cut it in soft grey stone as well. I love my kitten. An Armenian bought her.
WINIFRED. And where is she now?
ANABEL. I don't know—in Armenia, I suppose, if there is such a place. It would have to be kept under glass, because the stone wouldn't polish—and I didn't want it polished. But I dislike things under glass—don't you?
WINIFRED. Yes, I do. We had a golden clock, but Gerald wouldn't have the glass cover, and Daddy wouldn't have it without. So now the clock is in father's room. Gerald often went to Paris. Oliver used to have a studio there. I don't care much for painting, do you?