BRAMSON (_the old tart note creeping back_): Come along now!
Out with it!
DAN: It's only fancy, I suppose ... but ... you remind me a bit of her.
MRS. BRAMSON: Of your mother? (_As he nods simply, her sentimentality
stirring_) Oh ...
DAN: Have you got a son?
MRS. BRAMSON (_self-pityingly_): I haven't anybody at all.
DAN: Oh ... But I don't like to talk too much about my mother.
(_Putting a finger unobtrusively to his eye_) Makes me feel ...
sort of sad ... (_With a sudden thought_) She had the same eyes
very wide apart as you, and--and the same very good hands.
MRS. BRAMSON (_looking interestedly at her fingers_): Oh?... And
the same palpitations?
DAN: And the same palpitations. You don't mind me talking about your
health, do you?
MRS. BRAMSON: No.
DAN: Well, d'you know, you ought to get used to letting _other_
people do things for you.
MRS. BRAMSON (_a great truth dawning on her_): Yes!
DAN: You ought to be very careful.
MRS. BRAMSON: Yes! (_After a pause, eyeing him as he smiles at
her_) You're a funny boy to be a page-boy.
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