Baxter's movements.
DELIA. Oh, I'm so sorry; I thought you knew. What lovely flowers!
Are they for my aunt?
DEVENISH. To whom does one bring violets? To modest, shrinking,
tender youth.
DELIA. I don't think we have anybody here like that.
DEVENISH (with a bow). Miss Delia, they are for you.
DELIA. Oh, how nice of you! But I'm afraid I oughtn't to take them
from you under false pretences; I don't shrink.
DEVENISH. A fanciful way of putting it, perhaps. They are none the
less for you.
DELIA. Well, it's awfully kind of you. I'm afraid I'm not a very
romantic person. Aunt Belinda does all the romancing in our family.
DEVENISH. Your aunt is a very remarkable woman.
DELIA. She is. Don't you dare to say a word against her.
DEVENISH. My dear Miss Delia, nothing could be further from my
thoughts. Why, am I not indebted to her for that great happiness
which has come to me in these last few days?
DELIA (surprised). Good gracious! and I didn't know anything
about it. But what about poor Mr. Baxter?
DEVENISH (stiffly). I must beg that Mr. Baxter's name be kept out
of our conversation.
DELIA. But I thought Mr. Baxter and you--do tell me what's
happened. I seem to have lost myself.
DEVENISH. What has happened, Miss Delia, is that I have learnt at
last the secret that my heart has been striving to tell me for
weeks past.
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