FAITH. My song? (_Sits_ R. _of table._)

BOBBIE. I wrote it specially for her.

JOYCE. Aren't you lucky? Well, come out presently when you feel you're rhapsodized enough. (_Crosses to corridor._)

BOBBIE. Oh, do shut up, Joy, and go away.

(BOBBIE _starts to play._)

JOYCE. All right, keep calm. (_Exits and re-enter._) Have you seen my racquet?

BOBBIE. No.

JOYCE. Oh, thanks, dear, for your kind help. Sorry I came in at the wrong moment.

(_Exit_ JOYCE _brightly._)

BOBBIE. Young sisters are a nuisance sometimes.

FAITH (_giggling_). They must be.

BOBBIE. Listen...

(FAITH _reads magazine and takes no notice of song. He plays and sings a short love song._)

BOBBIE. There! Do you like it.

FAITH (_putting magazine down--ecstatically_). Oh, Bobbie, that's simply too sweet for words. It has a something about it--did you really write it for me?

BOBBIE (_ardently_). Every note.

(BOBBIE _plays a well-known and hackneyed song._)

FAITH. Bobbie! that's wonderful! Wonderful!! It's the best you've ever done. Now I _know_ you are clever.

BOBBIE (_coming_ C.). Yes! but I didn't write that one.

FAITH (_goes to him_). Oh! didn't you. Well, I know you would if you had thought of it--but never mind----

FAITH. Can you play the Indian Love Lyrics--I never get tired of them!

BOBBIE. I don't want to play any more, I want to talk to you.

FAITH. What shall we talk about?

BOBBIE. I could tell you such wonderful things--but I don't know whether you would understand.

FAITH (_pouting girlishly_). That's not very polite. (_Coming down between armchair and Chesterfield._)

BOBBIE. I mean that you wouldn't understand unless you felt like I do.

Oh, I don't know how to put it--but do you?

FAITH (_coyly_). Do I what? (_Sits_ L. _of Chesterfield._)

BOBBIE (_by armchair--desperately_). Feel as if you could ever care--even a little bit--for me?

FAITH. I haven't tried yet.

BOBBIE. Well, will you try?

FAITH. I must ask mother.

BOBBIE (_in anguish--moving slightly_ C.). Ask mother! But that's no use. Why, my mother could never make me care for someone I didn't want to, or not care for some one I did. Don't you see what I mean. If you are ever going to care for me you will have to do it on your own. Love isn't a thing to be ordered about at will. Love is wonderful--glorious, but above all, it's individual--you can't guide it. Why, you might fall in love with a taxi driver or a dope fiend----

FAITH. Mother would never allow me to _know_ a dope fiend.

BOBBIE (L. _of Chesterfield--firmly_). But if you _did_, your mother's opinion wouldn't have any effect at all--not if you had it in your heart--really and truly.

FAITH. Mother's disapproval might stop me falling in love.

BOBBIE. No, it mightn't--nothing could stop it. On the contrary it would probably strengthen it; opposition always does.

FAITH (_doubtfully_). Do you think so?

BOBBIE. I'm sure of it, but anyhow, I'm going to tell you something.

(MRS. DERMOTT _appears at window_ L.C. _with telegram._)

MRS. DERMOTT. Bobbie, darling----

BOBBIE (_irritably_). What is it, mother? (_Goes up to window._)

(FAITH _powders her nose, etc._)

MRS. DERMOTT. I've just received the oddest telegram. We met the boy in the drive. Do listen, I can't understand it. (_She reads._) "Come to lunch Monday and discuss Royalties--Claverton." What _does_ it all mean?

BOBBIE. It's not for you, it's for Vangy. Claverton's her publisher.

MRS. DERMOTT. What on earth do they want to discuss Royalties for. It sounds _so_ sn.o.bbish.

BOBBIE (_laughing_). Mother, at times you're inimitable. Royalties means money, so much per cent., you know. We've explained it heaps of times.

MRS. DERMOTT. Of course, dear, how stupid of me; but still it is very muddling, when they call things by fancy names like that. Put it on the mantelpiece and give it to Vangy when she comes in.

(_She disappears._)

BOBBIE. Mother never will grasp the smallest technicality.

(_Coming down to fireplace, he puts the telegram on the mantelpiece._)