OLIVIA (casually). Oh, I just--I was wondering--thinking about all the shocks we've been through to-day. Second marriages, and all that. BRIAN. Oh! It's a rotten business. OLIVIA. I suppose there's nothing wrong in getting married to the _same_ person twice? BRIAN. A hundred times if you like, I should think. OLIVIA. Oh? BRIAN. After all, in France, they always go through it twice, don't they? Once before the Mayor or somebody, and once in church. OLIVIA. Of course they do! How silly of me . . . I think it's rather a nice idea. They ought to do it in England more. BRIAN. Well, once will be enough for Dinah and me, if you can work it. (Anxiously) D'you think there's any chance, Olivia? OLIVIA (smiling). Every chance, dear. BRIAN (jumping up). I say, do you really? Have you squared him? I mean, has he-- OLIVIA. Go and catch them up now. We'll talk about it later on. BRIAN. Bless you. Righto. (As he goes out by the windows, GEORGE comes in at the door. GEORGE stands looking after him, and then turns to OLIVIA, who is absorbed in her curtains. He walks up and down the room, fidgeting with things, waiting for her to speak. As she says nothing, he begins to talk himself, but in an obviously unconcerned way. There is a pause after each answer of hers, before he gets out his next remark.) GEORGE (casually). Good-looking fellow, Strange. OLIVIA (equally casually). Brian--yes, isn't he? And such a nice boy . . . GEORGE. Got fifty pounds for a picture the other day, didn't he? Hey? OLIVIA. Yes. Of course he has only just begun. . . . GEORGE. Critics think well of him, what? OLIVIA. They all say he has genius. Oh, I don't think there's any doubt about it . . . GEORGE. Of course, I don't profess to know anything about painting. OLIVIA. You've never had time to take it up, dear. GEORGE. I know what I like, of course. Can't say I see much in this new-fangled stuff. If a man can paint, why can't he paint like--like Rubens or--or Reynolds? OLIVIA. I suppose we all have our own styles. Brian will find his directly. Of course, he's only just beginning. . . . GEORGE. But they think a lot of him, what? OLIVIA. Oh yes! GEORGE. H'm! . . . Good-looking fellow. (There is rather a longer silence this time, GEORGE continues to hope that he is appearing casual and unconcerned. He stands looking at OLIVIA'S work for a moment.) GEORGE. Nearly finished 'em? OLIVIA. Very nearly. Are my scissors there? GEORGE (looking round). Scissors? OLIVIA. Ah, here they are. . . . GEORGE. Where are you going to put 'em? OLIVIA (as if really wondering). I don't quite know. . . . I _had_ thought of this room, but--I'm not quite sure. GEORGE. Brighten the room up a bit. OLIVIA. Yes. . . . GEORGE (walking over to the present curtains). H'm. They _are_ a bit faded. OLIVIA (shaking out hers, and looking at them critically). Sometimes I think I love them, and sometimes I'm not quite sure.