ether
you would understand.

FAITH (_pouting girlishly_). That's not very polite. (_Coming down
between armchair and Chesterfield._)

BOBBIE. I mean that you wouldn't understand unless you felt like I do.
Oh, I don't know how to put it--but do you?

FAITH (_coyly_). Do I what? (_Sits_ L. _of Chesterfield._)

BOBBIE (_by armchair--desperately_). Feel as if you could ever
care--even a little bit--for me?

FAITH. I haven't tried yet.

BOBBIE. Well, will you try?

FAITH. I must ask mother.

BOBBIE (_in anguish--moving slightly_ C.). Ask mother! But that's no
use. Why, my mother could never make me care for someone I didn't want
to, or not care for some one I did. Don't you see what I mean. If you
are ever going to care for me you will have to do it on your own. Love
isn't a thing to be ordered about at will. Love is wonderful--glorious,
but above all, it's individual--you can't guide it. Why, you might fall
in love with a taxi driver or a dope fiend----

FAITH. Mother would never allow me to _know_ a dope fiend.

BOBBIE (L. _of Chesterfield--firmly_). But if you _did_, your mother's
opinion wouldn't have any effect at all--not if you had it in your
heart--really and truly.

FAITH. Mother's disapproval might stop me falling in love.

BOBBIE. No, it mightn't--nothing could stop it. On the contrary it would
probably strengthen it; opposition always does.

FAITH (_doubtfully_). Do you think so?

BOBBIE. I'm sure of it, but anyhow, I'm going to tell you something.

(MRS. DERMOTT _appears at window_ L.C. _with telegram._)

MRS. DERMOTT. Bobbie, darling----

BOBBIE (_irritably_). What is it, mother? (_Goes up to window._)

(FAITH _powders her nose, etc._)

MRS. DERMOTT. I've just received the oddest telegram. We met the boy in
the drive. Do listen, I can't understand it. (_She reads._) "Come to
lunch Monday and discuss Royalties--Claverton." What _does_ it all mean?

BOBBIE. It's not for you, it's for Vangy. Claverton's her publisher.

MRS. DERMOTT. What on earth do they want to discuss Royalties for. It
sounds _so_ snobbish.

BOBBIE (_laughing_). Mother, at times you're inimitable. Royalties means
money, so much per cent., you know. We've explained it heaps of times.

MRS. DERMOTT. Of course, dear, how stupid of me; but still it is very
muddling, when they call things by fancy names like that. Put it on the
mantelpiece and give it to Vangy when she comes in.

(_She disappears._)

BOBBIE