DELIA. And the artist in Wales.
BELINDA. Darling child, what a memory you have. No wonder your teachers
are pleased with you.
DELIA (_settling herself comfortably in deck-chair_ L. _of_
BELINDA _and lying in her arms_). Now tell me all about this one.
BELINDA (_meekly_). Which one?
DELIA (_excitedly_). Oh, are there lots?
BELINDA (_severely_). Only two.
DELIA. Two! You abandoned woman!
BELINDA. It's something in the air, darling. I've never been in
Devonshire in April before.
DELIA. Is it really serious this time?
BELINDA (_pained_). I wish you wouldn't say this time, Delia. It
sounds so unromantic. If you'd only put it into French--_cette
fois_--it sounds so much better. _Cette fois_. (_Parentally_.)
When one's daughter has just returned from an expensive schooling in
Paris, one likes to feel-----
DELIA. What I meant, dear, was, am I to have a stepfather at last?
BELINDA. Now you're being too French, darling.
DELIA. Why, do you still think father may be alive?
BELINDA. Why not? It's only eighteen years since he left us, and he was
quite a young man then.
DELIA.
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