Katya. But I have asked him! He always says no. He detests children—or, at least, he says he does. It’s a disease with mamma. “How I should like to hold a grandchild on my knee ... the patter of its little feet ... its first childish attempts to talk ... its soft smooth cheeks.” That’s how she goes on. Really, she embarrasses even me.
Mariana. Well, I s’pose it’s only natural. But what does your papa say?
Katya. Oh, it hasn’t got as far as that; I hope it never will. You see, mamma will only amuse Guy; papa would make him angry. After all, dear, it’s very soon. And you must remember that even mamma only had one.
Mariana. ’M yes. She needn’t talk, need she?
Katya. But she does. She has asked me all sorts of questions about Guy.
Mariana. Yes? What sort of questions?
Katya. Mariana! As if I’d tell you!
Mariana. Do—please!
Mariana. I’ve tried—hard. But, you see, I know so little about these things. In fact, I know nothing at all.