f money. I just mention
that as one thing--one of the important things. In addition to that, I
think you are both too young to marry. I don't think you know your own
minds, and I am not at all persuaded that, with what I venture to call
your outrageous tastes, you and my niece will live happily together.
Just because she thinks she loves you, Dinah may persuade herself now
that she agrees with all you say and do, but she has been properly
brought up in an honest English country household, and--er--she--well,
in short, I cannot at all approve of any engagement between you.
(Getting up) Olivia, if this Mr.--er--Pim comes, I shall be down at
the farm. You might send him along to me.

(He walks towards the windows.)

BRIAN (indignantly). Is there any reason why I shouldn't marry a girl
who has been properly brought up?

GEORGE. I think you know my views, Strange.

OLIVIA. George, wait a moment, dear. We can't quite leave it like
this.

GEORGE. I have said all I want to say on the subject.

OLIVIA. Yes, darling, but I haven't begun to say all that _I_ want to
say on the subject.

GEORGE. Of course, if you have anything to say, Olivia, I will listen
to it; but I don't know that this is quite the time, or that you have
chosen--(looking darkly at the curtains)--quite the occupation likely
to--er--endear your views to me.

DINAH (mutinously). I may as well tell you, Uncle George, that _I_
have got a good deal to say, too.

OLIVIA. I can guess what you are going to say, Dinah, and I think you
had better keep it for the moment.

DINAH (meekly). Yes, Aunt Olivia.

OLIVIA. Brian, you might take her outside for a walk. I expect you
have plenty to talk about.

GEORGE. Now mind, Strange, no love-making. I put you on your honour
about that.

BRIAN. I'll do my best to avoid it, sir.

DINAH (cheekily). May I take his arm if we go up a hill?

OLIVIA. I'm sure you'll know how to behave--both of you.

BRIAN. Come on, then, Dinah.

DINAH. Righto.

GEORGE (as they go). And if you do see any clouds, Strange, take a
good look at them. (He chuckles to himself) Triangular clouds--I never
heard of such nonsense. (He goes back to his chair at the
writing-table) Futuristic rubbish. . . . Well, Olivia?

OLIVIA. Well, George?

GEORGE. What are you doing?

OLIVIA. Making curtains, George. Won't they be rather sweet? Oh, but I
forgot--you don't like them.

GEORGE. I don't like them, and what is more, I don't mean to have th