Mrs. Dot: A Farce

by W. Somerset Maugham

You think that, do you?

Freddie.

Well, you can’t see yourself falling in love with him can you?

Mrs. Dot.

No. No.

Aunt Eliza.

And what is the sort of man a girl’s desperately fond of?

Freddie.

Oh, I don’t know. [Taking up a spoon and looking at himself, twisting an infinitesimal moustache.] I should think some one a bit younger than Gerald.

Mrs. Dot.