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.