(Exit MRS. BREWSTER with gin.)
PRISCILLA: Oh damn! What'll we do, Miles—I'm getting awfully sleepy.
MILES: Why—we might—er—pet a bit.
PRISCILLA (yawning): No. I'm too tired—besides, I hate whiskers.
MILES: Yes, that's so, I remember. (Ten minutes' silence, with MILES looking sentimentally into the fireplace, PRISCILLA curled up in a chair on the other side.)
MILES: I was—your aunt and I—we were talking about you before you came in. It was a talk that meant a lot to me.
PRISCILLA: Miles, would you mind closing that window?
(MILES closes the window and returns to his chair by the fireplace.)
MILES: And your aunt told me that your mother said you would some day marry a military man.
PRISCILLA: Miles, would you mind passing me that pillow over there?