Daniel. After all you can't blame him, it's only natural.
Sylvia. He ought to be jolly grateful to you for being the means of showing her up.
Daniel. Perhaps—but he won't be. I know what it feels like; we all go through it sometime or another. I'd love to wring that girl's neck though.
Sylvia. You like Bobbie best of us all, don't you?
Daniel. With the exception of you—yes. I think it's because he's the most like me. He is, you know. If he'd lived my life he'd have done exactly the same things.
Sylvia. I wonder. (Sits L. of Chesterfield.)
Daniel (smiling). I know. (He sits on chair, head of table.) He's got just the same regard for the truth, the same sublime contempt of the world, and the same amount of bombast and good opinion of himself that I started with, I only hope he'll make better use of his chances, and carve out a better career for himself.
Sylvia. If he does, he'll owe it all to you—first for rousing him up and making him work, and secondly for getting rid of Faith for him. Had he married her, she'd have been a millstone round his neck. He doesn't realize it now, but yesterday was one of the luckiest days of his life.
Daniel. D'you really think so?
Sylvia. I'm sure of it.