)
GEORGE. No, no! (_Slight pause, and he sings again_.) Of course I don't
profess to know anything about painting, myself.
OLIVIA. You've never had time to take it up, dear.
GEORGE (_coming down_ L. _a little_.) No! No! Of course I know what I
like. 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, or----
OLIVIA. I suppose we all have our own styles. Brian will be finding his,
directly. Of course, he's only just beginning. (_Pause_.)
GEORGE (_crossing up centre_). Yes, yes. But the critics think a lot of
him, what?
OLIVIA. Oh, yes.
GEORGE. Yes! H'm! (_Pause_.) Good-looking fellow.
(_There is rather a longer silence this time._ GEORGE _coming round back
of settee L. continues to hope that he is appearing casual and
unconcerned--he stands looking at_ OLIVIA'S _work for a moment_.)
GEORGE (_down_ L.). Nearly finished 'em?
OLIVIA. Very nearly. (_Smiling to herself, turns away to R., pretending
to look for scissors_.) Have you seen my scissors anywhere?
GEORGE (_looking round_). Scissors?
OLIVIA (_turns to_ L. _and finds them in her work-box_). It's all right,
here they are----
GEORGE (_down_ L. _below chair facing_ OLIVIA). Where are you thinking of
hanging 'em?
OLIVIA (_as if really wondering_). I don't quite know.... I _had_ thought
of this room, but--I'm not quite sure.
GEORGE (_crossing below_ OLIVIA _to centre_).
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