Bobbie. You will to-day, he's a wonderful chap. Eighteen months ago his doctor told him that he only had three years to live. (Faith giggles.) And the day he came over from South America he gave us all a jolly good talking to—quite right too.
Faith. Why?
Bobbie. You see father had left mother badly off, and we were all drooping round doing nothing.
Faith. Of course!
Bobbie. Then Uncle Dan turned up and said he'd leave his whole fortune to the one of us who made good in some way or other. Of course that bucked us up no end, and look at us now—Vangy's raking in the dibs with her novel, Sylvia's on a fair way to be a big film star, Oliver has just been made assistant manager at the motor works, which is a good leg-up considering that he started as an ordinary mechanic. I'm doing jolly well out of my songs—specially "The Rose of Passion Sweet." Why they buy the beastly thing I don't know. It's the worst of the lot.
Faith. Oh! Bobbie!
Bobbie. Even Joyce has walked off with all the prizes at school and intends to be a great artist. You see we've all risen to the bait. Eighteen months ago it seemed providential that Uncle should only have such a short time to live, now I rather hate it, in spite of the money. He's a dear, though of course we didn't see much of him. He went back to South America soon after he'd seen us, but still he left an impression. Here we are, all working like slaves, and helping mother to keep on the house. It would have broken her heart to have given it up. There are my prospects—a huge fortune, quite soon.
Faith. Yes, but, Bobbie, one of the others might get it.
Bobbie (after looking round). Ah, but there is just one more thing to tell you. Two days before he sailed Uncle Dan took me aside and told me—in the very strictest confidence of course—that I was the one out of us all that he had his eye on; he said he'd practically made out his will in my favour already....
Faith (ecstatically). Bobbie!