Act I

Why didn’t you tell us, Mother?

I did. I’ve talked of nothing but Sandy Tyrell for days. I adore Sandy Tyrell.

You’ve never mentioned him.

Who is he, Mother?

He’s a perfect darling, and madly in love with me⁠—at least, it isn’t me really, it’s my Celebrated Actress glamour⁠—but it gives me a divinely cosy feeling. I met him at Nora Trent’s.

Mother, I wish you’d give up this sort of thing.

What exactly do you mean by “this sort of thing,” Sorel?

You know perfectly well what I mean.

Are you attempting to criticise me?

I should have thought you’d be above encouraging silly callow young men who are infatuated by your name.

That may be true, but I shall allow nobody but myself to say it. I hoped you’d grow up a good daughter to me, not a critical aunt.