BELINDA. Of course not. (A little awkwardly, taking DELIA'S arm and moving down R.) Darling one, I wonder if you'd mind—just at first—being introduced as my niece. (By now at foot of deck–chair.) You see, I expect they're in a bad temper already (now C.), having come here together, and we don't want to spoil their day entirely.
DELIA (smiling, on BELINDA'S L.). I'll be your mother if you like.
BELINDA. Oh no, that wouldn't do, because then Mr. Baxter would feel that he ought to ask your permission before paying his attentions to me. He's just that sort of man. 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 takes her jacket from the hammock and moves towards the house.)
BELINDA. How sweet of you! No, no, not that way—you'll meet them. (Following quickly up between tree and table to DELIA, who has now reached the house.) Oh, I'm coming with you to do your hair. (Moving up C., arm in arm with DELIA.) 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―
(BELINDA, seeing BETTY entering from house, hurries DELIA up R., and they bob down behind the yew hedge R. BETTY comes from the house into the garden, crossing to centre and up stage looking for BELINDA, followed by MR. BAXTER and MR. DEVENISH. BAXTER gives an angry look round at DEVENISH as he enters. 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 négligé costume; perhaps twenty–two years old, and very scornful of the world. BAXTER crosses to L. below BETTY, and turns to her with a sharp inquiring glance. DEVENISH moves down R., languidly admiring the garden.)
BETTY (looking about her surprised). The mistress was here a moment ago. (The two heads pop up from behind the hedge and then down again immediately. BELINDA and DELIA exeunt R.). I expect she'll be back directly, if you'll just wait.
(She goes back into the house.)
(BAXTER, crossing to R., meets DEVENISH who has moved up R. BAXTER is annoyed and with an impatient gesture comes down between the tree and the table to chair L. and sits. DEVENISH throws his felt hat on to the table and walks to the back of the hammock. 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 (with contempt). 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. (Throws magazine down on table, 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. (Leaning against tree.) What do the birds and the flowers 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, going down R. and then round deck–chair to front of hammock. 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."
(BAXTER makes a gesture of annoyance.)
I haven't read them, so of course I don't know what you've been up to.
BAXTER (rising, turning away in disgust and crossing up L). Pah!
DEVENISH. Poor old Baxter! (Puts book of poems down on table and crosses below chair and gathers a daffodil from a large vase down R. and saying "Poor old Baxter!" ad lib. BAXTER moves round back of hammock and to R., collides with DEVENISH and much annoyed goes down between table and tree towards chair down L.) Baxter— (moving to and leaning against tree R.)
BAXTER (turning to DEVENISH crossly). I wish you wouldn't keep calling me "Baxter."
DEVENISH. Harold.
(BAXTER displays annoyance, and continues his walk to L.)
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. (Sits L.)
DEVENISH. Mr. Baxter—father—(gesture of annoyance from BAXTER)— 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—(BELINDA appears in the porch)—Heaven help her!—she loves me—
BELINDA (coming down R.). What are you doing, Mr. Devenish!