Mrs. Dermott. Well, to tell you the truth, we don't quite know, he will joke about it so—at first he said it was "Sleeping Sickness" and then "Creeping quickness" or pneu-somnia or something or other—one comfort, he doesn't seem to mind a bit.
Mrs. Crombie. Perhaps the doctor diagnosed the case all wrong.
Mrs. Dermott. Oh yes, they are careless—aren't they? Did you say "diagnosed," there now, that's the word you were trying to think of the other day for your short story, Vangy. I knew it was dia—— something.
(Enter Oliver and Joyce from garden—followed by Faith and
Bobbie.)
Joyce. I won a sett. (Goes to chair L. of table past.)
Oliver. Only because I had the sun in my eyes.
(Oliver puts racquet on piano.)
Joyce. Well, I offered to change over, but you wouldn't.
Mrs. Dermott. What time will Sylvia and your uncle arrive?
Oliver (sitting on top of table). They ought to be here any moment now, unless Sylvia's bashed up the bus.