Sylvia. What is the matter with you this afternoon, Bobbie—you are very up in the air about something.
(Joyce takes her coat off, puts on back of chair R. of table).
Bobbie (rising and sitting on club fender). Merely another instance of the triumph of mind over matter; in this case a long and healthy walk was the matter. I went into the lobby to put on my snow boots and then—as is usually the case with me—my mind won. I thought of tea, crumpets and comfort. Oliver has gone without me, he simply bursts with health and extraordinary dullness. Personally I shall continue to be delicate and interesting.
Sylvia (seriously). You may have to work, Bobbie.
Bobbie. Really, Sylvia, you do say the most awful things, remember Joyce is only a school-girl, she'll be quite shocked.
Joyce. We work jolly hard at school, anyhow.
Bobbie. Oh, no, you don't. I've read the modern novelists, and I know; all you do is walk about with arms entwined, and write poems of tigerish adoration to your mistresses. It's a beautiful existence.
Joyce. You are a silly ass. (Picks up magazine.)
Sylvia. It's all very well to go on fooling Bobbie, but really we shall have to pull ourselves together a bit. Mother's very worried, as you know, money troubles are perfectly beastly, and she hasn't told us nearly all. I do so hate her to be upset, poor darling.
Bobbie. What can we do? (Sits L. end of Chesterfield. Joyce puts down magazine and listens.)