(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 them
in my house. As I told you yesterday, this is the house of a simple
country gentleman, and I don't want any of these new-fangled ideas in
it.
OLIVIA. Is marrying for love a new-fangled idea?
GEORGE. We'll come to that directly. None of you women can keep to the
point. What I am saying now is that the house of my fathers and
forefathers is good enough for me.
OLIVIA. Do you know, George, I can hear one of your ancestors saying
that to his wife in their smelly old cave, when the new-fangled idea
of building houses was first suggested. "The Cave of my Fathers is--"
GEORGE. That's ridiculous. Naturally we must have progress. But that's
just the point. (Indicating the curtains) I don't call this sort of
thing progress. It's--ah--retrogression.
OLIVIA. Well, anyhow, it's pretty.
GEORGE. There I disagree with you. And I must say once more that I
will not have them hanging in my house.
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