Every chance, dear.
BRIAN (jumping up). I say, do you really? Have you squared him? I
mean, has he--
OLIVIA. Go and catch them up now. We'll talk about it later on.
BRIAN. Bless you. Righto.
(As he goes out by the windows, GEORGE comes in at the door. GEORGE
stands looking after him, and then turns to OLIVIA, who is absorbed in
her curtains. He walks up and down the room, fidgeting with things,
waiting for her to speak. As she says nothing, he begins to talk
himself, but in an obviously unconcerned way. There is a pause after
each answer of hers, before he gets out his next remark.)
GEORGE (casually). Good-looking fellow, Strange.
OLIVIA (equally casually). Brian--yes, isn't he? And such a nice
boy . . .
GEORGE. Got fifty pounds for a picture the other day, didn't he? Hey?
OLIVIA. Yes. Of course he has only just begun. . . .
GEORGE. Critics think well of him, what?
OLIVIA. They all say he has genius. Oh, I don't think there's any
doubt about it . . .
GEORGE. Of course, I don't profess to know anything about painting.
OLIVIA. You've never had time to take it up, dear.
GEORGE. I know what I like, of course. Can't say I see much in this
new-fangled stuff. If a man can paint, why can't he paint like--like
Rubens or--or Reynolds?
OLIVIA.
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