class="smcap">Sylvia. What is the matter with you this afternoon, Bobbie—you are very up in the air about something.

(Joyce takes her coat off, puts on back of chair R. of table).

Bobbie (rising and sitting on club fender). Merely another instance of the triumph of mind over matter; in this case a long and healthy walk was the matter. I went into the lobby to put on my snow boots and then—as is usually the case with me—my mind won. I thought of tea, crumpets and comfort. Oliver has gone without me, he simply bursts with health and extraordinary dullness. Personally I shall continue to be delicate and interesting.

Sylvia (seriously). You may have to work, Bobbie.

Bobbie. Really, Sylvia, you do say the most awful things, remember Joyce is only a school-girl, she'll be quite shocked.

Joyce. We work jolly hard at school, anyhow.

Bobbie. Oh, no, you don't. I've read the modern novelists, and I know; all you do is walk about with arms entwined, and write poems of tigerish adoration to your mistresses. It's a beautiful existence.

Joyce. You are a silly ass. (Picks up magazine.)

Sylvia. It's all very well to go on fooling Bobbie, but really we shall have to pull ourselves together a bit. Mother's very worried, as you know, money troubles are perfectly beastly, and she hasn't told us nearly all. I do so hate her to be upset, poor darling.

Bobbie. What can we do? (Sits L. end of Chesterfield. Joyce puts down magazine and listens.)

Sylvia. Think of a way to make money.

Bobbie. It's difficult now that the war is over.

Sylvia. That's cheap wit, dear; also it's the wrong moment for it. (Joyce giggles.)

Bobbie. It's always the wrong moment for cheap wit, admitting for one moment that it was, which it wasn't.

Joyce. Oh, do shut up, you make my head go round.

(Enter Evangeline downstairs; she is tall and almost beautiful;
she carries a book in her hand.)

Bobbie (turning). Oh, Vangy, do come and join us; we're on the verge of a congress.

Evangeline. I must read some more Maeterlinck. (Posing.)

Bobbie. You mean you must let us see you reading Maeterlinck.

Evangeline (goes to him, back of Chesterfield, touches his hair.) Try not to be so irritating, Bobbie dear; just because you don't happen to appreciate good literature, it's very small and narrow to laugh at people who do.

Sylvia. But seriously, Vangy, we are rather worried (Evangeline moves) about mother; she's been looking harassed for days.

Evangeline (sitting in armchair). What about?

Sylvia. Money, money, money! Haven't you realized that! Uncle Daniel sent a pretty substantial cheque from South America (all nod) that helped things on a bit after Father's death, but that must be gone by now—and mother won't say how much father left.

Joyce. Perhaps she doesn't know.

Bobbie. She must know now, he's been dead nearly six months—inconsiderate old beast!

Sylvia. Bobbie, you're not to talk about father like that. I won't have it; after all——

Bobbie. After all what?—He was perfectly rotten to mother, and never came near her for four years before his death. Why should we be charming and reverent about him just because he's our father. When I saw him I hated him, and his treatment of mum hasn't made me like him any better, I can tell you.

Evangeline. But still, Bobbie, he was our father, and mother was fond of him—(Bobbie. Ha!)—once, anyhow there's nothing to be gained by running him down.

Sylvia. The point is, have we enough money to keep on as we are, or haven't we?

Joyce (quickly). The only one who knows is mother, and she won't say.

Sylvia. We haven't asked her yet; we'll make her say. Where is she?

Bobbie. Up in her room, I think.

Sylvia. Go and fetch her down. (Puts sewing on form.)

Bobbie. What, now?

Sylvia. Yes, now.

Bobbie. Oh, no!

Sylvia and Evangeline. Yes, go along.

Bobbie. Righto! we'll tackle her straight away.

(Exit Bobbie upstairs.)

Joyce (goes to Evangeline). Do—do you think we may have to leave this house?

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.)

Mrs. Dermott (as she descends). Bobbie says you all want to talk to me! What's the matter, darlings? (Comes C.)

Sylvia. That's what we want to know, mum; come on now, out with it. You've been looking worried for ever so long.

(Bobbie stays at foot of stairs.)

Mrs. Dermott. I don't know what you mean, Sylvia dear I——

Sylvia. Now listen to me, mother; you've got something on your mind, that's obvious to any one; you're not a bit good at hiding your feelings. Surely we're all old enough to share the worry, whatever it is.

Mrs. Dermott. (kissing her). Silly old darlings—it's true I have been a little worried—you see, we're ruined.