Sylvia. I don't know.
Joyce. I should simply hate that. (Sits on right end of form.)
Evangeline. So should we all—it would be miserable.
Sylvia. Think how awful it must be for mother.
Joyce. I say, don't you think Oliver ought to be here—if anything's going to happen? He's the eldest.
Sylvia. He wouldn't be any help. He cares for nothing but the inside of motors and the outside of Maisie Stuart; he's not observant enough to know her inside.
Evangeline. What a perfectly horrible thing to say!
Sylvia. Well, it's absolutely true; he thinks she's everything that's good and noble, when all the time she's painfully ordinary and a bit of a cat; what fools men are.
Joyce (blasé). One can't help falling in love.
(Enter Mrs. Dermott downstairs followed by Bobbie; she is a pretty
little woman with rather a plaintive manner.)