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.
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