George. Of course not. You young things can stay up till three in the morning and be as fresh as paint. Wait till you're my age.
Sylvia. You haven't passed your hundredth birthday yet, have you?
George. Not quite. But I'm old enough to be your father.
Sylvia. I will not stay and listen to you talk rubbish. Good-bye, Daisy. Do come and see me one day this week.
Daisy. Good-bye.
George. I'll come and help you mount, shall I?
Sylvia. Oh, no, don't bother! Mr. Ferguson is there.
George. Oh, all right!
[She goes out.
Daisy. [Her smiles vanishing, hostile and cold.] You might shut the door.