BOBBY.  Oh, nothing.  At least—­ How are you?

MARGARET. [passing round the other end of the table and putting down on it a copy of Lloyd’s Weekly and her purse-bag] Quite well, thank you.  How did you enjoy Brighton?

BOBBY.  Brighton!  I wasnt at—­ Oh yes, of course.  Oh, pretty well. 
Is your aunt all right?

MARGARET.  My aunt!  I suppose so.  I havent seen her for a month.

BOBBY.  I thought you were down staying with her.

MARGARET.  Oh! was that what they told you?

BOBBY.  Yes.  Why?  Werent you really?

MARGARET.  No.  Ive something to tell you.  Sit down and lets be comfortable.

She sits on the edge of the table.  He sits beside her, and puts his arm wearily round her waist.

MARGARET.  You neednt do that if you dont like, Bobby.  Suppose we get off duty for the day, just to see what it’s like.

BOBBY.  Off duty?  What do you mean?

MARGARET.  You know very well what I mean.  Bobby:  did you ever care one little scrap for me in that sort of way?  Dont funk answering:  I dont care a bit for you—­that way.

BOBBY. [removing his arm rather huffily] I beg your pardon, I’m sure.  I thought you did.

MARGARET.  Well, did you?  Come!  Dont be mean.  Ive owned up.  You can put it all on me if you like; but I dont believe you care any more than I do.

BOBBY.  You mean weve been shoved into it rather by the pars and mars.

MARGARET.  Yes.

BOBBY.  Well, it’s not that I dont care for you:  in fact, no girl can ever be to me exactly what you are; but weve been brought up so much together that it feels more like brother and sister than—­well, than the other thing, doesnt it?

MARGARET.  Just so.  How did you find out the difference?

BOBBY. [blushing] Oh, I say!

MARGARET.  I found out from a Frenchman.

BOBBY.  Oh, I say! [He comes off the table in his consternation].

MARGARET.  Did you learn it from a Frenchwoman?  You know you must have learnt it from somebody.

BOBBY.  Not a Frenchwoman.  Shes quite a nice woman.  But shes been rather unfortunate.  The daughter of a clergyman.

MARGARET. [startled] Oh, Bobby!  That sort of woman!

BOBBY.  What sort of woman?

MARGARET.  You dont believe shes really a clergyman’s daughter, do you, you silly boy?  It’s a stock joke.

BOBBY.  Do you mean to say you dont believe me?

MARGARET.  No:  I mean to say I dont believe her.

BOBBY. [curious and interested, resuming his seat on the table beside her].  What do you know about her?  What do you know about all this sort of thing?

MARGARET.  What sort of thing, Bobby?

BOBBY.  Well, about life.

MARGARET.  Ive lived a lot since I saw you last.  I wasnt at my aunt’s.  All that time that you were in Brighton, I mean.