rs and the beautiful trees think
of your hat?

BAXTER. If one began to ask oneself what the birds thought of
things--(He pauses.)

DEVENISH. Well, and why shouldn't one ask oneself? It is better than
asking oneself what the Stock Exchange thinks of things.

BAXTER. Well (looking up at DEVENISH'S extravagant hair), it's the
nesting season. Your hair! (Suddenly.) Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!

DEVENISH (hastily smoothing it down). Really, Baxter, you're vulgar. (He
turns away and resumes his promenading. Suddenly he sees his book on
the grass beneath the hammock and makes a dash for it.) Ha, my book!
(Gloating over it) Baxter, she reads my book.

BAXTER. I suppose you gave her a copy.

DEVENISH (exultingly). Yes, I gave her a copy. My next book will be hers
and hers alone.

BAXTER. Then let me say that, in my opinion, you took a very great
liberty.

DEVENISH. Liberty! And this from a man who is continually forcing his
unwelcome statistics upon her.

BAXTER. At any rate, I flatter myself that there is no suggestion of
impropriety in anything that _I_ write.

DEVENISH. I'm not so sure about that, Baxter.

BAXTER. What do you mean, sir?

DEVENISH. Did you read _The Times_ this month on the new reviews!

BAXTER. Well!

DEVENISH. Oh, nothing. It just said, "Mr. Baxter's statistics are
extremely suggestive." I haven't read them, so of course I don't know
what you've been up to.

BAXTER (turning away in disgust). Pah!

DEVENISH. Poor old Baxter! (He wanders about the garden again, and,
having picked a flower, comes to rest against one of the trees from
which the hammock is swung. He leans against this and regards the flower
thoughtfully.) Baxter--

BAXTER (crossly). I wish you wouldn't keep calling me "Baxter."

DEVENISH. Harold.

BAXTER. It is only by accident--an accident which we both deplore--that
we have met at all, and in any case I am a considerably older man than
yourself.

DEVENISH. Mr. Baxter--father--I have a proposal to make. We will leave
it to this beautiful flower to decide which of us the lady loves.

BAXTER (turning round). Eh?

DEVENISH (pulling off the petals). She loves me, she loves Mr. Baxter,
she loves me, she loves Mr. Baxter--Heaven help her!--she loves me--

BELINDA (at the garden door.). What _are_ you doing, Mr. Devenish!

DEVENISH (throwing away the flower and bowing very low). My lady.

BAXTER (removing his bowler-hat stiffly). Good afternoon, Mrs. Tremayne.

(She gives