Mrs. Dermott. How can you be so horrid, Bobbie—I did think you'd have recovered from your silly temper before this. Fancy not being able to take a joke.
Oliver. It wasn't a joke, it was true.
Mrs. Dermott. You really are utterly absurd. Pass me the toast. I wouldn't have believed you could all have been so silly. I expect Uncle Daniel is just laughing at you.
Oliver. Yes, that's just what he is doing.
Mrs. Dermott. I really think, Oliver, that you, as the eldest, ought to set a little better example. And the marmalade—thank you. After all, considering how good he's been to us, we might allow him to have a little joke without becoming disagreeable—even if it doesn't amuse us very much. Why, I——
Joyce. But, mother, I tell you it isn't a joke—it's the gospel truth.
Mrs. Dermott. I've never known such a set of maddening children. Pass me the paper, will you, Sylvia? I wish to read it.
(Sylvia hands her newspaper from window seat and she opens it out and reads it, ignoring the family altogether. Telegraph—with extra pages inserted.)
Oliver (breaking the silence). Has any one seen my tennis racquet?
Joyce. Bobbie had it yesterday.