HYACINTH—You mustn’t agitate yourself like this. What will be, will be.
And if it isn’t successful this time, it will be next time.
BEATRICE—When? Albert is thirty-five. And Alexandra isn’t getting younger.
HYACINTH—How old is she?
BEATRICE— ... and twenty.
HYACINTH—What ... and twenty?
BEATRICE—Nothing. Just “and twenty.”
HYACINTH—That is a new number.
BEATRICE—Yes, my dear. I invented it myself. A mother’s invention.
HYACINTH—I see. So she is just “and twenty.”
BEATRICE—But she can’t stay that way indefinitely. She is ripening.
In a political family that wouldn’t matter. But our daughters must be
beautiful. My conscience has troubled me for making the poor girl wait as
long as she has.
HYACINTH—One can’t blame you for that. You are a devoted mother, my dear.
But you are aware that our lives are ordered not for the individual’s
but for the family’s good. The happiest royal family may be composed of
unhappy individuals.
BEATRICE—Poor Xara.
HYACINTH—Who is that?
BEATRICE—Alexandra!
HYACINTH—Is that what you call her now?
BEATRICE—[_To SYMPHOROSA, who is entering._] Well?