[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 négligé 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 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. 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!