Sylvia (sewing). Why on earth don't you go and change them? You'll catch cold.
(Bobbie enters R. He is a slim, bright-looking youth of twenty.)
Joyce. I don't mind if I do. (Laughs.) Colds are fun.
Bobbie. She loves having a fuss made of her, beef tea—chicken—jelly with whipped cream—and fires in her bedroom, little Sybarite.
Joyce. So do you.
Bobbie (comes C.). No, I don't; whenever my various ailments confine me to my bed, I chafe—positively chafe at the terrible inactivity. I want to be up and about, shooting, riding, cricket, football, judo, the usual run of manly sports.
Sylvia. Knowing you for what you are—lazy, luxurious——
Bobbie (pained). Please, please, please, not in front of the child. (Joyce kicks). It's demoralizing for her to hear her idolized brother held up to ridicule.
Joyce. You're not my idolized brother at all—Oliver is. (Turning away, pouting.)
Bobbie (seated R. on Chesterfield, sweetly). If that were really so, dear, I know you have much too kind a heart to let me know it.