is hands over her eyes.]

RICHARD. Three guesses who it is.

VIOLA (putting her hands over his). The Archbishop of Canterbury.

RICHARD. No.

VIOLA. The Archbishop of York.

RICHARD. Fortunately that exhausts the archbishops. Now, then, your last
guess.

VIOLA. Richard Meriton, M.P.

RICHARD. Wonderful! (He kisses the top of her head lightly and goes
round to the club fender, where he sits with his back to the fireplace.)
How did you know? (He begins to fill a pipe.)

VIOLA (smiling). Well, it couldn't have been father.

RICHARD. N-no, I suppose not. Not just after breakfast anyway. Anything
in the paper?

VIOLA. There's a letter from father pointing out that--

RICHARD. I never knew such a man as Robert for pointing out.

VIOLA. Anyhow, it's in big print.

RICHARD. It would be.

VIOLA. You are very cynical this morning, Dick.

RICHARD. The sausages were cold, dear.

VIOLA. Poor Dick! Oh, Dick, I wish you were on the same side as father.

RICHARD. But he's on the wrong side. Surely I've told you that
before.... Viola, do you really think it would make a difference?

VIOLA. Well, you know what he said about you at Basingstoke the other
day.

RICHARD. No, I don't, really.

VIOLA. He said that your intellectual arrogance was only equalled by
your spiritual instability. I don't quite know what it means, but it
doesn't sound the sort of thing you want in a son-in-law.

RICHARD. Still, it was friendly of him to go right away to Basingstoke
to say it. Anyhow, you don't believe it.

VIOLA. Of course not.

RICHARD. And Robert doesn't really.

VIOLA. Then why does he say it?

RICHARD. Ah, now you're opening up very grave questions. The whole
structure of the British Constitution rests upon Robert's right to say
things like that at Basingstoke.... But really, darling, we're very good
friends. He's always asking my advice about things--he doesn't take it,
of course, but still he asks it; and it awfully good of him to insist on
my staying here while my flat was being done up. (Seriously) I bless him
for that. If it hadn't been for the last week I should never have known
you. You were just "Viola"--the girl I'd seen at odd times since she was
a child; now--oh, why won't you let me tell your father? I hate it like
this.

VIOLA, Because I love you, Dick, and because I know father. He would,
as they say in novels, show you the door. (Smiling) And I want you this
side of the door for a little bit longer