RICHARD: Tell me one thing, Sorel, did your Father and Mother know I was coming? SOREL: Oh, yes; they were awfully pleased. RICHARD: A rather nice-looking woman came down, in a big hat, and went into the garden with a young man, without saying a word. SOREL: That was Mother, I expect. We’re an independent family—we entertain our friends sort of separately. RICHARD: Oh, I see. SOREL: It was sweet of you to come. RICHARD: I wanted to come—I’ve thought about you a lot. SOREL: Have you really? That’s thrilling. RICHARD: I mean it. You’re so alive and vital and different from other people. SOREL: I’m so frightened that you’ll be bored here. RICHARD: Why should I be? SOREL: Oh, I don’t know. But you won’t be, will you?—or if you are, tell me at once, and we’ll do something quite different. RICHARD: You’re rather a dear, you know. SOREL: I’m not—I’m devastating, entirely lacking in restraint. So’s Simon. It’s Father’s and Mother’s fault really; you see, they’re so vague—they’ve spent their lives cultivating their Arts and not devoting any time to ordinary conventions and manners and things. I’m the only one who sees that, so I’m trying to be better. I’d love to be beautifully poised and carry off difficult situations with a lift of the eyebrows—— RICHARD: I’m sure you could carry off anything. SOREL: There you are, you see, saying the right thing! You always say the right thing, and no one knows a bit what you’re really thinking. That’s what I adore. RICHARD: I’m afraid to say anything now, in case you think I’m only being correct. SOREL: But you are correct. I wish you’d teach Simon to be correct too. RICHARD: It would be uphill work, I’m afraid. SOREL: Why, don’t you like him? RICHARD: I’ve only met him for a moment. SOREL: Would you like to see the garden? RICHARD: Very much indeed. SOREL: As a matter of fact, we’d better wait until after tea. Shall I sing you something? RICHARD: Please—I should love it. SOREL: I don’t want to really a bit—only I’m trying to entertain you. It’s as easy as pie to talk in someone else’s house, like at the dance the other night, but here on my own ground I’m finding it difficult. RICHARD (_puzzled_): I’m sorry. SOREL: Oh, it isn’t your fault; honestly, it isn’t—you’re awfully kind and responsive. What shall we do? RICHARD: I’m quite happy talking—to you. SOREL: Can you play Mah Jong? RICHARD: No, I’m afraid I can’t. SOREL: I’m _so_ glad—I _do_ hate it so. [_CLARA enters, with preparations for tea. SOREL sighs with relief._ Here’s tea. CLARA: Where’s your Mother, dear? SOREL: Out in the garden, I think. CLARA: It’s starting to rain. SOREL: Oh, everyone will come dashing in, then. How awful! RICHARD: Won’t the luggage get rather wet, out there? SOREL: What luggage? CLARA: I’ll bring it in when I’ve made the tea. RICHARD (_rising_): Oh, don’t trouble; I’ll do it now. SOREL: We ought to have got William up from the village. CLARA: It’s Saturday. SOREL: I know it is.