EVELYN. (_Putting magazine on sofa and putting out cigarette on ashtray_) Yes, so that he can give up this house to live at his club, but he promised poor mother to wait till we were all married---- TARVER. Yes, and he knows there's a better chance of getting Celia off his hands as long as Phyllis is about, because people will go on talking of her and Celia as the two Faraday _girls_, and lumping good old Celia into the girl division just out of habit. He won't risk letting Miss Celia put on a third pair of green stockings. (TARVER _looks around for ashtray, sees one on upper end of table, rises, goes to upper end of table, flicks ashes on tray and strolls down right of sofa and sits lower end of fender_.) AUNT IDA. Eh? Will you tell me what all this has to do with Celia's _stockings?_ (PHYLLIS _sits in chair_ L. _of table_ R.) EVELYN. (_Rising leisurely, going to lower end of table, taking her fan and crossing to_ AUNT IDA, _speaking as she goes_) Not Celia's _stockings_, Aunt Ida, her _green stockings_. AUNT IDA. Eh? EVELYN. Why, yes. Have you never known of the old country custom which requires an elder sister to wear _green stockings_ at the wedding of her _younger_ sister, if that _younger_ sister has captured a husband _first?_ AUNT IDA. (_Turning her back to_ EVELYN _with disgust_) No, I never heard of such rubbish. EVELYN. (_Patronizingly, crossing to head of table_ R. _and speaking as she crosses_) And poor old Celia has had to put them on twice already. Once for Madge and once for me, and now comes Phyllis. (_Puts her hand on_ PHYLLIS'S _shoulder_.) PHYLLIS. And if I have to wait to be married until Celia is out of the way---- (_Sighs_. EVELYN _moves above table and down_ R. _of sofa_.) Oh, couldn't we think of anybody who might marry Celia? Evelyn, do you think you could do anything about it with Henry Steele or Jimmie Raleigh? TARVER. (_With a brilliant inspiration_) If it comes to that, why shouldn't _Admiral Grice_ be got to marry Miss Celia? (_Everybody exclaims and throws up their hands in horror_.) (EVELYN _sits on sofa_.) PHYLLIS. (_Horrified_) Oh, Bobby! TARVER. Yes, Grice. (_Thoughtfully, strolling center below table_) Isn't half a bad idea, come to think of it. I'd like to get even with Grice. (AUNT IDA _gives a grunt of disgust_.) The way he keeps roaring questions at me all day about my election, and neither he nor Miss Celia are what you might call--in the first bloom of their youth. AUNT IDA. (_Interrupting sharply_) _Mr. Tarver_, my niece, Miss Celia Faraday, is a dear, delightful young woman, still under thirty. EVELYN. (_Again with smiling sarcasm_) Yes, but how _much_ under, Aunt Ida? TARVER. Yes, as Lady Trenchard says, how _much_ is Miss Celia Faraday under thirty? Thirty-two is freezing-point, remember. (PHYLLIS _laughs_.) AUNT IDA. Tcha! (_Picks up knitting and goes on with it angrily_.)