Sylvia. Hello, mother. (Kiss across L. banisters.)
Mrs. Dermott. Good morning, darling. Are there any letters?
Sylvia. Only one for you, I think.
Mrs. Dermott (taking letter from table). From Tibbets, I expect. (Sniffs at it.) No! From Isobel Harris. (Sits at the head of the table.) I do hope she doesn't want to come and stay—I couldn't bear that. (Opens it.) Oh no, it's only to say that Fanny's engaged to an officer in the Coldstream Guards. How splendid for her.
Sylvia. Poor Fanny—I'm glad. (Sits in chair on her mother's left.)
Mrs. Dermott. Why do you say poor Fanny, dear? I'm sure she's very fortunate. Now-a-days when nice men are so scarce. I was only saying——
Sylvia. She didn't say he was a nice man—only that he was in the Coldstream Guards. I said poor because I can just imagine all her awful relations as bridesmaids, and her father and mother shoving her up the altar steps in their efforts to get her safely married.
Mrs. Dermott. Isobel means well, although she's a little trying. But I've never liked Charlie—no man with such a long, droopy moustache could ever be really trusted. Besides, they're so insanitary. Sound the gong again, dear. I do wish they'd all learn to be a little more punctual.
(Sylvia does so, and returns to sideboard. Enter Joyce downstairs followed by Oliver; they are both obviously suffering from temper. They both kiss mother.)
Joyce (disagreeably, as she comes downstairs). All right! All right!—we're coming. What's the fuss? (Sits on form.)