A niece is so safe--however good you are at
statistics, you can't really prove anything.

DELIA. All right, mummy.

BELINDA (enjoying herself). You'd like to be called by a different name,
wouldn't you? There's something so thrilling about taking a false name.
Such a lot of adventures begin like that. How would you like to be Miss
Robinson, darling? It's a nice easy one to remember. (Persuasively.) And
you shall put your hair up so as to feel more disguised. What fun we're
going to have!

DELIA. You baby! All right, then, I'm Miss Robinson, your favourite
niece. (She moves towards the house.)

BELINDA. How sweet of you! Oh, I'm coming with you to do your hair. You
don't think you're going to be allowed to do it yourself, when so much
depends on it, and husbands leave you because of it, and--[They do in
together.]

[BETTY comes from the other side of the house into the garden, followed
by MR. BAXTER and MR. DEVENISH. MR. BAXTER is forty-five, prim and
erect, with close-trimmed moustache and side-whiskers. His clothes
are dark and he wears a bowler-hat. MR. DEVENISH is a long-haired,
good-looking boy in a neglige costume; perhaps twenty-two years old, and
very scornful of the world.]

BETTY (looking about her surprised). The mistress was here a moment ago.
I expect she'll be back directly, if you'll just wait. [She goes back
into the house.]

(MR. BAXTER puts his bowler-hat firmly on his head and sits down very
stiffly and upright in a chair on the left-hand side of the table.
DEVENISH throws his felt hat on to the table and walks about
inquisitively. He sees the review in the hammock and picks it up.)

DEVENISH. Good heavens, Baxter, she's been reading your article!

BAXTER. I dare say she's not the only one.

DEVENISH. That's only guesswork (going to back of table); you don't know
of anyone else.

BAXTER. How many people, may I ask, have bought your poems?

DEVENISH (loftily). I don't write for the mob.

BAXTER. I think I may say that of my own work.

DEVENISH. Baxter, I don't want to disappoint you, but I have reluctantly
come to the conclusion that you _are_ one of the mob. (Annoyed.) Dash
it! what are you doing in the country at all in a bowler-hat?

BAXTER. If I wanted to be personal, I could say, "Why don't you get your
hair cut?" Only that form of schoolboy humour doesn't appeal to me.

DEVENISH. This is not a personal matter; I am protesting on behalf of
nature. What do the birds and the flowe